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WASHINGTON IRVING, 



gbe Xabegibe Series ot Engtigb iRea&lngs 
£Iir>tg SELECTIONS 



THE SKETCH BOOK 



BY 

WASHINGTON IRVING 



WITI/ AN INTRODUCTION FOR THE USE OF 
SCHOOIS AND ACADEMIES 






CHICAGO: 

AINSWORTH & COMPANY 
igoo 

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G9403 



fibrso-y of Conpr««« 

NOV 1 1900 

Co^ynght entry 
SECOND COPY. 

LOROW twviaoN. 
MOV 23 190U 



Copyright, 1900, 
By AINSWORTH & COMPANY, 



Messrs. G. P. Putnam's Sons are the publishers of the complete and au- 
thorized editions of Irving's works. 

Acknowledgments are due to the compiler of Lessons in Literature for 
material taken from that book. 



INTRODUCTION. 



Washington Irving. (1783-1859.) 

"Washington Irving!" Why, gentlemen, I don't go upstairs to 
bed two nights out of the seven without taking Washington Irving 
under my arm." — Charles Dickens. 

Washington Irving, one of the earliest and most 
popular of American writers, was born in New York 
City in 1783. He received only a common-school 
education, leaving the schoolroom at sixteen, yet for 
many years afterward he pursued a systematic course 
of reading. In his boyhood days he seemed to have 
a natural talent for writing essays and stories. As he 
always disliked mathematics, he often wrote composi- 
tions for his schoolmates, and they in turn worked out 
his problems for him. He studied law for a time, but 
preferred to employ himself in rambling excursions 
around Manhattan Island, by which he became famil- 
iar with the beautiful scenery which he afterward 
made famous by his pen. Thus he acquired that 
minute knowledge of various historical locations, 
curious traditions and legends so beautifully made use 
of in his ** Sketch Book" and ''History of New 
York." 

In 1 8 14 he served as an aid to Governor Tompkins, 
and at the close of the war he went to Europe, where 
5 



6 WASHING TON IR VING, 

he remained for seventeen years. Having lost all his 
property, he devoted himself to literature to earn a 
living. His '* Sketch Book " was published in 1819; 
his next works were '' Bracebridge Hall " and ''Tales 
of a Traveler." Having been commissioned to make 
some translations from the Spanish, he took up his 
residence in Madrid. To this sojourn in Spain we 
are indebted for some of his most charming works, as 
* ' Life of Columbus, " ' ' Conquest of Granada, " " The 
Alhambra," ''Mahomet and His Successors," and 
' ' Spanish Papers. ' ' He returned to America in 1832. 
During the next ten years were published "Astoria," 
' ' Adventures of Captain Bonneville, ' ' and ' ' Wolf ert's 
Roost." In 1842 Irving was appointed minister to 
Spain. His " Life of Goldsmith " was published four 
years later. His last and most carefully written work 
was the " Life of Washington," in five volumes. 

He seems to have been born with a rare sense of 
literary proportion and form. We wonder how, with 
his want of training, he could have elaborated a style 
which is distinctly his own, and is as copious and fe- 
licitous in the choice of words, flowing, spontaneous, 
clear, and as little wearisome when read continuously 
in quantity as any in the English tongue. 

Irving's last years were passed at " Sunnyside, " his 
delightful residence at Irvington, on the Hudson, in 
the wildest of the beautiful scenes which he has im- 
mortalized. 



CHRONOLOGY. 



1783. April 3, Washington Irving was born in the city of 
New York. 

1800. Began to study law. 

1802. Contributions to The Morning Chronicle, signed 
Jonathan 01dst3'le. 

1806. Returned to New York from Europe; was admitted to 
the bar. 

1807. Sabnagundi, a humorous magazine; joint production 
of Washington Irving, James K. Paulding, and William Irving. 

1809. History of New York, by Diedrich Knickerbocker. 

18 10. Admitted as a partner with two of his brothers in 
a mercantile business. 

1 8 13-14. Edited Analectic Magazijie, published in Phila- 
delphia. 

1815. Second visit to Europe. 

18 19. Failure in business. Bankruptcy. 

1819-20. The Sketch Book was published in numbers in 
New York. 

1822. Bracebridge Hall. The characters in the Christmas 
Sketches reappear in this book.. 

1824. Tales of a Traveler; sold for 1,500 guineas to Murray, 
without his having seen the manuscript. 

1828. The Life and Voyages ' of Christopher Columbus. 
Written while in Madrid. 

1829. Ch7'-onicle of the Conquest of G)'anada. 

183 1. The University of Oxford conferred on him the de- 
gree of LL. D. 

183 1. Voyages of the Companions of Col u?nb us. 

7 



8 CHRONOLOGY. 

1832. Returned to New York after seventeen years' ab- 
sence. 

1832. The Alha7nbra. Irving lived in the old Moorish 
palace between two and three months " in a kind of Oriental 
dream," he says. 

1834. Traveled in the West, in company with commission- 
ers appointed by the United States government to treat with 
the Indians. 

1835. A Tour on the Prairies. Abbotsfora and Newstead 
Abbey {Crayon Miscellany). 

1835. Legends of the Conquest of Spain {Crayon Miscellany). 
Included in Spanish Papers. 

1835. Purchased a tract of land on the Hudson, on which 
was a small Dutch cottage, the Van Tassel house of the Legend 
of Sleepy Hollow, afterward known as Wolfert's Roost, and 
rechristened Sunnyside. 

1836. Astoria: an account of John Jacob Astor's settlement 
on the Columbia River, scenes beyond the Rocky Mountains, 
the fur trade, etc. 

1837. The Adventures of Captain Bonneville. 

1842-46. Minister to Spain. Notified of his appointment 
by Daniel Webster. 

1849. Oliver Goldsmith: A Biography . 

1850. Mahomet and His Successors. 
1855. Wolf erf s Roost. 

1855-59. The Life of George Washington (five volumes). 
1859. November 28, Irving died at Sunnyside. 



CONTENTS. 



The Author's Account of Himself, 


II 


The Voyage, ...... 


i6 


Rip Van Winkle, 


26 


The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, 


53 


Westminster Abbey, . - . . . 


102 


The Stage Coach, . . . » . 


119 


Rural Life in England, . 


129 


The Country Church, .... 


140 


Christmas, 


148 



On page i 5 5 and following will be found a series 
of studies on " Rip Van Winkle," on *'The Legend of 
Sleepy Hollow," and on "Westminster Abbey." 
These are submitted with the thought that they may 
serve as a guide to the understanding of these selec- 
tions, and as a suggestion for the study of the other 
selections. For various reasons these studies have 
been placed at the end of the volume, and the pub- 
lishers desire to express their acknowledgments to the 
author of Skinner's "Studies in Literature," from 
which volume, published by Ainsworth & Company, 
these extracts have been taken. 



10 



THE SKETCH BOOK. 



THE AUTHOR'S ACCOUNT OF HIMSELF. 

"I am of this mind with Homer, that as the snaile that crept out 
of her shel was turned eftsoones into a toad, and thereby was forced to 
make a stoole to sit on; so the traveller that stragleth from his owne 
country is in a short time transformed into so monstrous a shape, that he 
is faine to alter his mansion with his manners, and to live where he can, 
not where he would." — Lyly'' s Euphues?- 

1 I WAS always fond of visiting new scenes, and 
observing strange characters and manners. Even 
when a mere child I began my travels, and made 
many tours of discovery into foreign parts and unknown 
regions of my native city, to the frequent alarm 
of my parents, and the emolument of the town- 
crier. As I grew into boyhood, I extended the range 
of my observation. My holiday afternoons were 
spent in rambles about the surrounding country. I 
made myself familiar with all its places famous in 
history or fable. I knew every spot where a murder 
or robbery had been committed, or a ghost seen. I 
visited the neighboring villages, and added greatly to 
my stock of knowledge by noting their habits and 
customs, and conversing with their sages and great 

ijohn Lyly, Lylie, Lyllie, or Lilly (1553-1609) was an English wit and writer of 
Shakespeare's time, who is best known from his novel Euphues ; the style of which was 
intended to reform and purify that of the English language. 



1 2 THE SKETCH B OK. 

men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to 
the summit of the most distant hill, from whence I 
stretched my eye over many a mile of tei^ra incognita, 
and was astonished to find how vast a globe I 
inhabited. 

2 This rambling propensity strengthened with my 
years. Books of voyages and travels became my 
passion; and, in devouring their contents, I neglected 
the regular exercises of the school. How wistfully 
would I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, 
and watch the parting ships, bound to distant chmes! 
With what longing eyes would I gaze after their 
lessening sails, and waft myself in imagination to 
the ends of the earth! 

3 Further reading and thinking, though they brought 
this vague incHnation into more reasonable bounds, 
only served to make it more decided. I visited vari- 
ous parts of my own country; and, had I been merely 
influenced by a love of fine scenery, I should have 
felt little desire to seek elsewhere its gratification, for 
on no country have the charms of nature been more 
prodigally lavished. Her mighty lakes, like oceans of 
liquid silver; her mountains, with their bright aerial 
tints; her valleys, teeming with wild fertility; her 
tremendous cataracts, thundering in their solitudes; 
her boundless plains, Qwaving with spontaneous ver- 
dure; her broad, deep rivers, rolling in solemn silence 
to the ocean; her trackless forests, where vegetation 
puts forth all its magnificence; her skies, kindling with 



THE A UTHORS A CCO UNT OF HIMSELF. I 3 

the magic of summer clouds and glorious sunshine, — 
no, never need an American look beyond his own 
country for the sublime and beautiful of natural 
scenery. 

4 But Europe held forth all the charms of storied 
and poetical association. There were to be seen the 
masterpieces of art, the refinements of highly culti- 
vated society, the quaint pecuHarities of ancient and 
local custom. My native country was full of youth- 
ful promise; Europe was rich in the accumulated 
treasures of age. Her very ruins told the history of 
times gone by, and every moldering stone was a 
chronicle. I longed to wander over the scenes of 
renowned achievement; to tread, as it v/ere, in the 
footsteps of antiquity; to loiter about the ruined castle; 
to meditate on the falling tower; to escape, in short, 
from the commonplace realities of the present, and 
lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the past. 

5 I had, besides all this, an earnest desire to see the 
great men of the earth. We have, it is true, our 
great men in America: not a city but has an ample 
share of them. I have mingled among them in my 
time, and been almost withered by the shade into 
which they cast me; for there is nothing so baleful to 
a small man as the shade of a great one, particularly 
the great man of a city. But I was anxious to see 
the great men of Europe; for I had read in the works 
of various philosophers that all animals degenerated 
in America, and man among the number. A great 



14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

man of Europe, thought I, must therefore be as 
superior to a great man of America as a peak of the 
Alps to a highland of the Hudson; and in this idea I 
was confirmed by observing the comparative impor- 
tance and swelling magnitude of many English travel- 
ers among us, who, I was assured, were very little 
people in their own country. I will visit this land 
of wonders, thought I, and see the gigantic race from 
which I am degenerated. 

6 It has been either my good or evil lot to have my 
roving passion gratified. I have wandered through 
different countries, and witnessed many of the shift- 
ing scenes of life. I can not say that I have studied 
them with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with 
the sauntering gaze with which humble lovers of the 
picturesque stroll from the window of one print-shop 
to another; caught sometimes by the delineations of 
beauty, sometimes by the distortions of caricature, 
and sometimes by the loveliness of landscape. As 
it is the fashion for modern tourists to travel pencil 
in hand, and bring home their portfolios filled with 
sketches, I am disposed to get up a few for the enter- 
tainment of my friends. When, however, I look over 
the hints and memorandums I have taken down for 
the purpose, my heart almost fails me at finding how 
my idle humor has led me aside from the great objects 
studied by every regular traveler who would make a 
book. I fear I shall give equal disappointment with 
an unlucky landscape painter, who had traveled on 



THE A UTHOR'S A CCOUNT OF HIMSELF. I 5 

the Continent, but, following the bent of his vagrant 
inclination, had sketched in nooks and corners and 
by-places. His sketch book was accordingly crowded 
with cottages and landscapes and obscure ruins; but 
he had neglected to paint St. Peter's^ or the Colos- 
seum, the cascade of Terni ^ or the Bay of Naples, 
and had not a single glacier or volcano in his whole 
collection. 



iThe Church of St. Peter in Rome is built upon the site of the religious edifice 
erected in the time of Constantine (306). 

2 A town of Italy in the province of Perugia, noted for the Falls of Velino, 



THE VOYAGE. 



" Ships, ships, I will descrie you 
Amidst the main, 
, I will come and try you, 

What you are protecting. 
And projecting, 

What 's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading. 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 
Hallo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go ? " 

—Old Poem. 

1 To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage 
he has to make is an excellent preparative. The tem- 
porary absence of worldly scenes and employments 
produces a state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive 
new and vivid impressions. The vast space of waters 
that separates the hemispheres is like a blank page in 
existence. There is no gradual transition, by which, 
as in Europe, the features and population of one 
country blend almost imperceptibly with those of 
another. From the moment you lose sight of the 
land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on 
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

2 In traveling by land there is a continuity of 
scene, and a connected succession of persons and 

i6 



, THE VOYAGE. 1/ 

incidents, that carry on the story of Ufe, and lessen 
the effect of absence and separation. We drag, it is 
true, '*a lengthening chain "^ at each remove of our 
pilgrimage; but the chain is unbroken: we can trace 
it back link by link; and we feel that the last of them 
still grapples us to home. But a wide sea voyage 
severs us at once. It makes us conscious of being 
cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, 
and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes 
a gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us 
and our homes, — a gulf subject to tempest and fear 
and uncertainty, that makes distance palpable, and 
return precarious. 

3 Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I 
saw the last blue line of my native land fade away 
like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had 
closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and 
had time for meditation before I opened another. 
That land, too, now vanishing from my view, which 
contained all that was most dear to me in life, — 
what vicissitudes might occur in it, what changes 
might take place in me, before I should visit it again! 
Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither 
he may be driven by the uncertain currents of exist- 
ence, or when he may return, or whether it may be 
ever his lot to revisit the scenes of his childhood? 

4 I said that at sea all is vacancy. I should cor- 
rect the expression. To one given to day-dreaming, 

1 Goldsmith's Traveler, line lo. 
2 



l8 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and fond of losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage 
is full of subjects for meditation; but then they are 
the wonders of the deep and of the air, and rather 
tend to abstract the mind from worldly themes. I 
dehghted to loll over the quarter raihng,^ or cHmb to 
the maintop, of a calm day, and muse for hours 
together on the tranquil bosom of a summer's sea; 
to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds just peering 
above the horizon, fancy them some fairy realms, 
and people them with a creation of my own; to 
watch the gentle, undulating billows, rolling their 
silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy 
shores. 

5 There was a delicious sensation of mingled 
security and awe with which I looked down, from 
my giddy height, on the monsters of the deep at their 
uncouth gambols, — shoals of porpoises, tumbling 
about the bow of the ship, the grampus, slowly 
heaving his huge form above the surface; or the 
ravenous shark, darting, like a specter, through the 
blue waters. My imagination would conjure up all 
that I had heard or read of the watery world beneath 
me, — of the finny herds that roam its fathomless 
valleys, of the shapeless monsters that lurk among 
the very foundations of the earth, and of those 
wild phantasms that swell the tales of fishermen and 
sailors. 



1 The railing reaching from the taffrail to the gangway and serving as a fence to 
the quarter-deck. 



THE VOYAGE. 19 

6 Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge 
of the ocean, would be another theme of idle specula- 
tion. How interesting this fragment of a world, 
hastening to rejoin the great mass of existence! What 
a glorious monument of human invention, that has 
thus triumphed over wind and wave; has brought the 
ends of the world into communion; has estabhshed 
an interchange of blessings, pouring into the sterile 
regions of the north all the luxuries of the south; 
has diffused the light of knowledge and the charities 
of cultivated life; and has thus bound together those 
scattered portions of the human race between which 
Nature seemed to have thrown an insurmountable 
barrier. 

7 We one day descried some shapeless object drift- 
ing at a distance. At sea everything that breaks the 
monotony of the surrounding expanse attracts atten- 
tion. It proved to be the mast of a ship that must 
have been completely wrecked; for there were the 
remains of handkerchiefs, by which some of the crew 
had fastened themxselves to this spar, to prevent their 
being washed off by the waves. There was no trace 
by which the name of the ship could be ascertained. 
The wreck had evidently drifted about for many 
months. Clusters of shell-fish had fastened about it, 
and long seaweeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 
thought I, is the crew.? Their struggle has long been 
over; they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
tempest; their bones lie whitening among the caverns 



20 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

of the deep. Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have 
closed over them, and. no one can tell the story of 
their end. What sighs have been wafted after that 
ship! what prayers offered up at the deserted fireside 
of home! How often has the mistress, the wife, the 
mother, pored over the daily news to catch some 
casual intelligence of this rover of the deep! How 
has expectation darkened into anxiety, anxiety into 
dread, and dread into despair! Alas! not one 
memento shall ever return for love to cherish. All 
that shall ever be known, is that she sailed from her 
port, ''and was never heard of more." 

8 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to 
many dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the 
case in the evening, when the weather, which had 
hitherto been fair, began to look wild and threaten- 
ing, and gave indications of one of those sudden 
storms that will sometimes break in upon the serenity 
of a summer voyage. As we sat round the dull light 
of a lamp in the cabin, that made the gloom more 
ghastly, everyone had his tale of shipwreck and dis- 
aster. I was particularly struck with a short one 
related by the captain. 

9 "As I was once saihng," said he, " in a fine 
stout ship across the Banks of Newfoundland,^ one of 
those heavy fogs that prevail in those parts rendered 
it impossible for us to see far ahead even in the day- 
time; but at night the weather was so thick that we 

1 The shoals to the southeast of the Island of Newfoundland. 



THE VOYAGE. 21 

could not distinguish any object at twice the length of 
the ship. I kept lights at the masthead, and a con- 
stant watch forward to look out for fishing-smacks, 
which are accustomed to lie at anchor on the Banks. 
The wind was blowing a smacking breeze, and we 
were going at a great rate through the water. Sud- 
denly the watch gave the alarm of * A sail ahead! ' It 
was scarcely uttered before we were upon her. She 
was a small schooner,^ at anchor, with her broadside 
toward us. The crew were all asleep, and had neg- 
lected to hoist a light. We struck her just amidships. 
The force, the size, and weight of our vessel bore her 
down below the waves. We passed over her, and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck 
was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or 
three half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin. 
They just started from their beds, to be swallowed, 
shrieking, by the waves. I heard their drowning cry 
mingling with the wind. The blast that bore it to 
our ears swept us out of all further hearing. I shall 
never forget that cry. It was some time before we 
could put the ship about, she was under such head- 
way. We returned, as nearly as we could guess, 
to the place where the smack had anchored. We 
cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. We 
fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the 
halloo of any survivors; but all was silent. We never 
saw or heard anything of them more." 

10 I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to 



22 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

all my fine fancies. The storm increased with the 
night. The sea was lashed into tremendous confu- 
sion. There was a fearful, sullen sound of rushing 
waves and broken surges. Deep called unto deep. 
At times the black volume of clouds overhead seemed 
rent asunder by flashes of lightning that quivered 
along the foaming billows, and made the succeeding 
darkness doubly terrible. The thunders bellowed 
over the wild waste of waiters, and were echoed and 
prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the ship 
staggering and plunging among these roaring caverns, 
it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, 
or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards would dip 
into the water. Her bow was almost buried beneath 
the waves. Sometimes an impending surge appeared 
ready to overwhelm her, and nothing but a dexterous 
movement of the helm preserved her from the shock. 

11 When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene 
still followed me. The whistling of the wind through 
the rigging sounded like funereal wailings. The creak- 
ing of the masts, the straining and groaning of bulk- 
heads, as the ship labored in the weltering sea, were 
frightful. As I heard the waves rushing along the side 
of the ship, and roaring in my very ear, it seemed as 
if Death were raging round this floating prison, seek- 
ing for his prey. The mere starting of a nail, the 
yawning of a seam, might give him entrance. 

12 A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and 
favoring breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections 



THE VOYAGE. 23 

to flight. It is impossible to resist the gladdening 
influence of fine weather and fair wind at sea. When 
the ship is decked out in all her canvas, every sail 
swelled, and careering gayly over the curling waves, 
how lofty, how gallant, she appears! How she seems 
to lord it over the deep! I might fill a volume with 
the reveries of a sea voyage, — for with me it is almost 
a continual reverie, — but it is time to get to shore. 

13 It was a fine, sunny morning when the thrilling 
cry of " Land! " was given from the masthead. None 
but those who have experienced it can form an idea of 
the delicious throng of sensations which rush into an 
American's bosom when he first comes in sight of 
Europe. There is a volume of associations with the 
very name. It is the land of promise, teeming with 
everything of which his childhood has heard, or on 
which his studious years have pondered. 

14 From that time until the moment of arrival, it 
was all feverish excitement. The ships of war, that 
prowled like guardian giants along the coast; the head- 
lands of Ireland, stretching out into the Channel; the 
Welsh mountains, towering into the clouds, — all were 
objects of intense interest. As we sailed up the Mer- 
sey,^ I reconnoitered the shores with a telescope. My 
eye dvv^elt with delight on neat cottages, with their 
trim shrubberies and green grass plots. I saw the 
moldering ruin of an abbey overrun with ivy, and the 



1 A river in the county of Lancaster, England, which opens into a fine estuary be- 
fore reaching the sea at Liverpool, 



24 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

taper spire of a village church rising from the brow of 
a neighboring hill. All were characteristic of Eng- 
land. 

15 The tide and wind were so favorable that the 
ship was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was 
thronged with people, — some idle lookers-on, others 
eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could dis- 
tinguish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. 
His hands were thrust into his pockets. He was 
whistling thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small 
space having been accorded him by the crowd, in 
deference to his temporary importance. There were 
repeated cheerings and salutations interchanged be- 
tween the shore and the ship as friends happened 
to recognize each other. I particularly noticed one 
young woman of humble dress but interesting de- 
meanor. She was leaning forward from among the 
crowd. Her eye hurried over the ship as it neared 
the shore, to catch some wished-for countenance. 
She seemed disappointed and agitated, when I heard 
a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor sailor 
who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited the 
sympathy of everyone on board. When the weather 
was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him 
on deck in the shade; but of late his illness had so 
increased, that he had taken to his hammock, and 
only breathed a wish that he might see his wife before 
he died. He had been helped on deck as we came up 



THE VOYAGE. 25 

the river, and was now leaning against the shrouds, 
with a countenance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, 
that it was no wonder even the eye of affection did 
not recognize him. But at the sound of his voice, 
her eye darted on his features. It read at once a 
whole volume of sorrow. She clasped her hands, 
uttered a faint shriek, and stood wringing them in 
silent agony. 

16 All now was hurry and bustle, — the meetings of 
acquaintances, the greetings of friends, the consulta- 
tions of men of business. I alone was solitary and 
idle. I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. 
I stepped upon the land of my forefathers, but felt 
that I was a stranger in the lando 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 



fA Posthumous Writing of Diedrich Knickerbocker.) 

"By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday that is Wodensday, 
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
Unto thylke day in which I creep into 
My sepulchre. ' ' 

— Cariwright. 

1 Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson, 
must remember the Catskill Mountains. They are a 
dismembered branch of the great Appalachian fam- 
ily, and are seen away to the west of the river 
swelhng up to a noble height, and lording it over the 
surrounding country. Every change of season, every 
change of weather, indeed every hour of the day, pro- 
duces some change in the magical hues and shapes 
of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the 
good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers. 
When the weather is fair and settled, they are clothed 
in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the 
clear evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of 
the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood of 
gray vapors about their summits, which, in the last 
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 
crown of glory. 
26 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 2y 

2 At the foot of these fairy mountains the voyager 
may have descried the Hght smoke curhng up from a 
village, v^^hose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, 
just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into 
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. It is a little 
village, of great antiquity, having been founded by 
some of the Dutch colonists in the early times of the 
province, just about the beginning of the government 
of the good Peter Stuyvesant (may he rest in peace!); 
and there were some of the houses of the original 
settlers standing within a few years, built of small, 
yellow bricks brought from Holland, having latticed 
windows and gable fronts, surmounted with weather- 
cocks. 

3 In that same village, and in one of these very 
houses (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly 
time-v/orn and weather-beaten), there lived many 
years since, while the country was yet a province of 
Great Britain, a simple, good-natured fellow of the 
name of Rip Van Winkle. He was a descendant of 
the Van Winkles who figured so gallantly in the 
chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and accompanied 
him to the siege of Fort Christina. He inherited, 
however, but little of the martial character of his 
ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, 
good-natured man; he was, moreover, a kind neigh- 
bor, and an obedient, hen-pecked husband. Indeed, 
to the latter circumistance might be owing that meek- 
ness of spirit which gained him such universal popu- 



28 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

larity; for those men are most apt to be obsequious 
and conciliating abroad, who are under the disciphne 
of shrews at home. Their tempers, doubtless, are 
rendered pliant and malleable in the fiery furnace of 
domestic tribulation; and a curtain lecture is worth all 
the sermons in the world for teaching the virtues of 
patience and long-suffering. A termagant wife may 
therefore, in some respects, be considered a tolerable 
blessing; and, if so, Rip Van Winkle was thrice blessed. 

4 Certain it is, that he was a great favorite among 
all the good wives of the village, who, as usual with 
the amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles, 
and never failed, whenever they talked those matters 
over in their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame 
on Dame Van Winkle. The children of the village, 
too, would shout with joy whenever he approached. 
He assisted at their sports, made their playthings, 
taught them to fly kites and shoot marbles, and told 
them long stories of ghosts, witches, and Indians. 
Whenever he went dodging about the village, he was 
surrounded by a troop of them, hanging on his skirts, 
clambering on his back, and playing a thousand tricks 
on him with impunity; and not a dog would bark at 
him throughout the neighborhood. 

5 The great error in Rip's composition was an 
insuperable aversion to all kinds of profitable labor. 
It could not be from the want of assiduity or perse- 
verance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod 
as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 29 

day without a murmur, even though he should not be 
encouraged by a single nibble. He would carry a 
fowling-piece on his shoulder for hours together, 
trudging through woods and swamps, and up hill and 
down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or wild pigeons. 
He would never refuse to assist a neighbor even in 
the roughest toil, and was a foremost man at all 
country frolics for husking Indian corn or building 
stone fences. The women of the village, too, used to 
employ him to run their errands, and to do such little 
odd jobs as their less obliging husbands would not do 
for them. In a word, Rip was ready to attend to 
anybody's business but his own; but as to doing fam- 
ily duty, and keeping his farm in order, he found it 
impossible. 

6 In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on 
his farm. It was the most pestilent little piece of 
ground in the whole country. Everything about it 
went wrong, and would go wrong in spite of him. 
His fences were continually falling to pieces; his cow 
would either go astray, or get among the cabbages; 
weeds were sure to grow quicker in his fields than 
anywhere else; the rain always made a point of set- 
ting in just as he had some outdoor work to do; so 
that, though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away 
under his management acre by acre, until there was 
little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and 
potatoes, yet it was the w^orst conditioned farm in the 
neighborhood. 



30 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

1 His children, too, were as ragged and wild as 
if they belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin 
begotten in his own likeness, promised to inherit the 
habits with the old clothes of his father. He was 
generally seen trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, 
equipped in a pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins,^ 
which he had much ado to hold up with one hand, as 
a fine lady does her train in bad weather. 

8 Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those 
happy mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who 
take the world easy, eat white bread or brown, which- 
ever can be got with least thought or trouble, and 
would rather starve on a penny than work for a pound. 
If left to himself, he would have whistled life away in 
perfect contentment; but his wife kept continually 
dinning in his ears about his idleness, his carelessness, 
and the ruin he was bringing on his family. 

9 Morning, noon, and night, her tongue v/as inces- 
santly going, and everything he said or did was sure 
to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip 
had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. 
He shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up 
his eyes, but said nothing. This, however, always 
provoked a fresh volley from his wife; so that he was 
fain to draw off his forces, and take to the outside of 
the house, — the only side which, in truth, belongs to 
a hen-pecked husband. 

1 A kind of wide breeches. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 31 

10 Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, 
who was as much hen-pecked as his master; for Dame 
Van Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, 
and even looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the 
cause of his master's going so often astray. True it 
is, in all points of spirit befitting an honorable dog, 
he was as courageous an animal as ever scoured the 
woods; but what courage can withstand the ever- 
during and all-besetting terrors of a woman's tongue ? 
The moment Wolf entered the house, his crest fell, 
his tail drooped to the ground or curled between his 
legs, he sneaked about with a gallows air, casting 
many a sidelong glance at Dame Van Winkle, and, at 
the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, he would 
fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

11 Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van 
Winkle as years of matrimony rolled on. A tart 
temper never mellows with age, and a sharp tongue 
is the only edged tool that grows keener with constant 
use. For a long while he used to console himself, 
when driven from home, by frequenting a kind of 
perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and other 
idle personages of the village, which held its sessions 
on a bench before a small inn, designated by a rubi- 
cund portrait of his Majesty George III. Here they 
used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy, summer's day, 
talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless 
sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been 
worth any statesman's money to have heard the pro- 



3 2 THE SKETCH B O OK. 

found discussions which sometimes took place, when 
by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands 
from some passing traveler. How solemnly they 
would listen to the contents, as drawled out by 
Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, — a dapper, 
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the 
most gigantic word in the dictionary! and how sagely 
they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place! 

12 The opinions of this junto were completely 
controlled by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the 
village, and landlord of the inn, at the door of which 
he took his seat from morning till night, just moving 
sufBciently to avoid the sun and keep in the shade of 
a large tree; so that the neighbors could tell the hour 
by his movements as accurately as by a sun-dial. It 
is true, he was rarely heard to speak, but smoked his 
pipe incessantly. His adherents, however (for every 
great man has his adherents), perfectly understood 
him, and knew how to gather his opinions. When 
anything that was read or related displeased him, he 
was observed to smoke his pipe vehemently, and to 
send forth short, frequent, and angry puffs; but, when 
pleased, he would inhale the smoke slowly and tran- 
quilly, and emit it in light and placid clouds, and 
sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, and let- 
ting the fragrant vapor curl about his nose, would 
gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

13 From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 33 

at length routed by his termagant wife, who would 
suddenly break in upon the tranquillity of the assem- 
blage, and call the members all to naught; nor was 
that august personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, 
sacred from the daring tongue of this terrible virago, 
who charged him outright with encouraging her hus- 
band in habits of idleness. 

14 Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair; 
and his only alternative to escape from the labor of 
the farm and the clamor of his wife, was to take gun 
in hand and stroll away into the woods. Here he 
would sometimes seat himself at the foot of a tree, 
and share the contents of his wallet with Wolf, with 
whom he sympathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecu- 
tion. ''Poor Wolf," he would say, ''thy mistress 
leads thee a dog's life of it; but never mind, my lad, 
whilst I live thou shalt never want a friend to stand 
by thee!" Wolf would wag his tail, look wistfully 
in his master's face, and, if dogs can feel pity, I verily 
believe he reciprocated the sentiment with all his 
heart. 

15 In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal 
day, Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the 
highest parts of the Catskill Mountains. He was 
after his favorite sport of squirrel shooting, and the 
still soHtudes had echoed and re-echoed with the reports 
of his gun. Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, 
late in the afternoon, on a green knoll, covered with 
mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a preci- 

3 



34 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

pice. From an opening between the trees he could 
overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich 
woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, 
far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic 
course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the 
sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on its 
glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue high- 
lands. 

16 On the other side he looked down into a deep 
mountain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom 
filled with fragments from the impending cliffs, and 
scarcely lighted by the reflected rays of the setting 
sun. For some time Rip lay musing on this scene. 
Evening was gradually advancing; the mountains 
began to throw their long, blue shadows over the 
valleys; he saw that it would be dark long before he 
could reach the village, and he heaved a heavy sigh 
when he thought of encountering the terrors of Dame 
Van Winkle. 

17 As he was about to descend, he heard a voice 
from a distance, hallooing, ' ' Rip Van Winkle ! Rip 
Van Winkle!" He looked around, but could see 
nothing but a crow winging its solitary flight across 
the mountain. He thought his fancy must have 
deceived him, and turned again to descend, when he 
heard the same cry ring through the still evening air, 
*' Rip Van Winkle! Rip Van Winkle ! " At the same 
time Wolf bristled up his back, and, giving a low growl, 
skulked to his master's side, looking fearfully down 



RIP VAN WINKLE. ' 35 

into the glen. Rip now felt a vague apprehension 
stealing over him. He looked anxiously in the same 
direction, and perceived a strange figure toiling slowly 
up the rocks, and bending under the weight of some- 
thing he carried on his back. He was surprised to 
see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place, but supposing it to be some one of the neigh- 
borhood in need of his assistance, he hastened down 
to yield it. 

18 On nearer approach he was still more surprised 
at the singularity of the stranger's appearance. He 
was a short, square built old fellow, with thick, bushy 
hair and a grizzled beard. His dress was of the an- 
tique Dutch fashion, — a cloth jerkin^ strapped round 
the waist; several pair of breeches, the outer one of 
ample volume, decorated with rows of buttons down 
the sides, and bunches at the knees. He bore on his 
shoulders a stout keg, that seemed full of liquor, and 
made signs for Rip to approach and assist him with 
the load. Though rather shy and distrustful of this 
new acquaintance, Rip complied with his usual alac- 
rity; and mutually relieving each other, they clam- 
bered up a narrow gully, apparently the dry bed of a 
mountain torrent. As they ascended. Rip every now 
and then heard long, rolling peals, like distant thunder, 
that seemed to issue out of a deep ravine, or rather 
cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which their rugged 
path conducted. He paused for an instant, but, sup- 

1 A close jacket. 



36 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

posing it to be the muttering of one of those transient 
thunder showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, 
they came to a hollow, like a small amphitheater, sur- 
rounded by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks 
of which impending trees shot their branches, so that 
you only caught ghmpses of the azure sky and the 
bright evening cloud. During the whole time, Rip 
and his companion had labored on in silence; for, 
though the former marveled greatly what could be 
the object of carrying a keg of Hquor up this wild 
mountain, yet there was something strange and in- 
comprehensible about the unknown, that inspired 
awe and checked familiarity. 

19 On entering the amphitheater, new objects of 
wonder presented themselves. On a level spot in 
the center was a .company of odd-looking personages 
playing at ninepins. They were dressed in a quaint, 
outlandish fashion. Some wore short doublets;^ 
others, jerkins, with long knives in their belts; and 
most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style 
with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were 
peculiar. One had a large head, broad face, and 
small, piggish eyes. The face of another seemed to 
consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a 
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's 
tail. They all had beards, of various shapes and col- 
ors. There was one who seemed to be the com- 



1 A close-fitting outer garment. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 37 

mander. He was a stout old gentleman, with a 
weather-beaten countenance. He wore a laced doub- 
let, broad belt and hanger,^ high-crowned hat and 
feather, red stockings, and high-heeled shoes, with 
roses in them. The whole group reminded Rip of 
the figures in an old Flemish painting in the parlor 
of Dominie Van Schaick, the village parson, and 
which had been brought over from Holland at the 
time of the settlement. 

20 What seemed particularly odd to Rip was that 
though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, 
yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mys- 
terious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy 
party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing 
interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise 
of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed 
along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. 

21 As Rip and his companion approached them, 
they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared 
at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such 
strange, uncouth, lack-luster countenances, that his 
heart turned within him, and his knees smote together. 
His companion now emptied the contents of the keg 
into large flagons, and made signs to him to wait 
upon the company. He obeyed with fear and trem- 
bling. They quaffed the liquor in profound silence, 
and then returned to their game. 

22 By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension sub- 

1 A short broadsword. 



38 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

sided. He even ventured, when no eyes were fixed 
upon him, to taste the beverage, which he found had 
much of the flavor of excellent Hollands.^ He was 
naturally a thirsty soul, and was soon tempted to 
repeat the draught. One taste provoked another; 
and he reiterated his visits to the flagon so often that 
at length his senses were overpowered, his eyes swam 
in his head, his head gradually declined, and he fell 
into a deep sleep. 

23 On waking, he found himself on the green knoll 
whence he had first seen the old man of the glen. He 
rubbed his eyes. It was a bright, sunny morning. The 
birds were hopping and twittering among the bushes; 
and the eagle was wheeling aloft, and breasting the 
pure mountain breeze. *' Surely, " thought Rip, **I 
have not slept here all night." He recalled the 
occurrences before he fell asleep, — the strange man 
with a keg of liquor, the mountain ravine, the wild 
retreat among the rocks, the woe-begone party at nine- 
pins, the flagon. *'Oh, that wicked flagon ! " thought 
Rip; ''what excuse shall I make to Dame Van 
Winkle!" 

24 He looked round for his gun, but in place of the 
clean, well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old fire- 
lock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the 
lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten. He now 
suspected that the grave roysters of the mountain had 
put a trick upon him, and, having dosed him with 

1 Holland gin. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 39 

liquor, had robbed him of his gun. Wolf, too, had 
disappeared; but he might have strayed away after 
a squirrel or partridge. He whistled after him, and 
shouted his name, but all in vain; the echoes repeated 
his whistle and shout, but no dog was to be seen. 

25 He determined to revisit the scene of the last 
evening's gambol, and, if he met with any of the 
party, to demand his dog and gun. As he rose to 
walk, he found himself stiff in the joints, and want- 
ing in his usual activity. ' ' These mountain beds do 
not agree with me, " thought Rip; "and if this frolic 
should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, I shall 
have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." With 
some difficulty he got down into the glen. He found 
the gully up which he and his companion had 
ascended the preceding evening; but, to his astonish- 
ment, a mountain stream was now foaming down 
it, leaping from rock to rock, and filling the glen with 
babbling murmurs. He, however, made shift to scram- 
ble up its sides, working his toilsome way through 
thickets of birch, sassafras, and witch-hazel, and 
sometimes tripped up or entangled by the wild grape- 
vines that twisted their coils and tendrils from tree to 
tree, and spread a kind of network in his path. 

26 At length he reached to where the ravine had 
opened through the cliffs to the amphitheater; but no 
traces of such opening remained. The rocks pre- 
sented a high, impenetrable wall, over which the tor- 
rent came tumbling in a sheet of feathery foam, and 



40 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

fell into a broad, deep basin, black from the shadows 
of the surrounding forest. Here, then, poor Rip was 
brought to a stand. He again called and whistled 
after his dog. He was only answered by the cawing 
of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air about 
a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice, and who, 
secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and 
scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to 
be done } The morning was passing away, and Rip 
felt famished for want of his breakfast. He grieved 
to give up his dog and gun, he dreaded to meet his 
wife; but it would not do to starve among the moun- 
tains. He shook his head, shouldered the rusty fire- 
lock, and, with a heart full of trouble and anxiety, 
turned his steps homeward. 

27 As he approached the village, he met a number 
of people, but none whom he knew; which somewhat 
surprised him, for he had thought himself acquainted 
with everyone in the country round. Their dress, too, 
was of a different fashion from that to which he was 
accustomed. They all stared at him with equal marks 
of surprise, and, whenever they cast their eyes upon 
him, invariably stroked their chins. The constant 
recurrence of this gesture induced Rip involuntarily 
to do the same, when to his astonishment, he found 
his beard had grown a foot long. 

28 He had now entered the skirts of the village. 
A troop of strange children ran at his heels, hooting 
after him, and pointing at his gray beard. The dogs, 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 41 

too, not one of which he recognized for an old 
acquaintance, barked at him as he passed. The very 
village w^as altered; it was larger and more populous. 
There were rows of houses which he had never seen 
before, and those which had been his familiar haunts 
had disappeared. Strange names were over the doors, 
strange faces at the windows; everything was strange. 
His mind now misgave him. He began to doubt 
whether both he and the world around him were 
not bewitched. Surely this was his native village, 
which he had left but the day before. There stood 
the Catskill Mountains; there ran the silver Hudson 
at a distance; there was every hill and dale precisely 
as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. 
"That flagon last night," thought he, *'has addled 
my poor head sadly." 

29 It was with some difficulty that he found the 
way to his own house, which he approached with 
silent awe, expecting every moment to hear the shrill 
voice of Dame Van Winkle. He found the house 
gone to decay, — the roof fallen in, the windows 
shattered, and the doors off the hinges. A half- 
starved dog that looked like Wolf was skulking about 
it. Rip called him by name; but the cur snarled, 
showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an unkind 
cut, indeed. '* My very dog," sighed poor Rip, "has 
forgotten me." 

30 He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, 
Dame Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. 



42 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

It was empty, forlorn, and apparently abandoned. 
This desolateness overcame all his connubial fears. 
He called loudly for his wife and children: the lonely 
chambers rang for a moment with his voice, and then 
all again was silence. 

31 He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old 
resort, the village inn; but it, too, was gone. A 
large, rickety, wooden building stood in its place, 
with great, gaping windows, some of them broken 
and mended with old hats and petticoats; and over 
the door was painted, ''The Union Hotel, by Jona- 
than Doolittle." Instead of the great tree that used 
to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there now 
was reared a tall, naked pole, with something on the 
top that looked like a red night-cap; ' and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage 
of stars and stripes. All this was strange and incom- 
prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, 
the ruby face of King George, under which he had 
smoked so many a peaceful pipe; but even this was 
singularly metamorphosed. The red coat was changed 
for one of blue and buff, a sword was held in the 
hand instead of a scepter, the head was decorated 
with a cocked hat, and underneath was painted in 
large characters, ''General Washington." 

32 There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the 
door, but none that Rip recollected. The very 

1 Cap of liberty. Its shape was copied from the Phrygian cap, which had become 
a symbol or emblem of personal and political freedom. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 43 

character of the people seemed changed. There was 
a busy, busthng, disputatious tone about it, instead 
of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. 
He looked in vain for the sage Nicholas Vedder, with 
his broad face, double chin, and fair long pipe, 
uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke instead of idle 
speeches; or Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, doling 
forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. In place of 
these, a lean, bihous-looking fellow, with his pockets 
full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about 
the rights of citizens, election, members of Congress, 
liberty, Bunker Hill,' heroes of seventy-six, and 
other words, that were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 
the bewildered Van Winkle, 

^^ The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled 
beard, his rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and 
the army of women and children that had gathered 
at his heels, soon attracted the attention of the 
tavern pohticians. They crowded round him, eying 
him from head to foot with great curiosity. The ora- 
tor bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly aside, 
inquired on which side he voted. Rip stared in 
vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired 
in his ear whether he was a Federal or a Democrat. 
Rip was equally at a loss to comprehend the question, 
when a knowing, self-important old gentleman in a 

1 A celebrated height in Charlestown, Mass. (now apart of Boston), where a battle 
was fought between the British and American forces, June 17, 1775. See Webster's 
oration, in Lakeside Classics No. 27. 



44 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

sharp cocked hat made his way through the crowd, put- 
ting them to the right and left with his elbows as he 
passed, and, planting himself before Van Winkle, — 
with one arm akimbo, the other resting on his cane; 
his keen eyes and sharp hat penetrating, as it were, 
into his very soul, — demanded in an austere tone 
what brought him to the election with a gun on his 
shoulder and a mob at his heels, and whether he 
meant to breed a riot in the village. **Alas! gen- 
tlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, *'I am a 
poor, quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal 
subject to the King, God bless him !" 

ZA Here a general shout burst from the bystanders: 
''A Tory, a tory! A spy! A refugee! Hustle him! 
Away with him! " It was with great difficulty that 
the self-important man in the cocked hat restored 
order, and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of 
brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit what 
he came there for, and whom he was seeking. The 
poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, 
but merely came there in search of some of his neigh- 
bors, who used to keep about the tavern. 

35 ** Well, who are they.? Name them." 

36 Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
'^ Where's Nicholas Vedder .?" 

37 There was a silence for a little while, when an 
old man replied in a thin, piping voice, ' * Nicholas 
Vedder! Why, he is dead and gone these eighteen 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 45 

years! There was a wooden tombstone in the church- 
yard that used to tell all about him, but that 's rotten 
and gone, too." 

38 *' Whereas Brom Dutcher ? " 

i 

39 *' Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning 
of the war. Some say he was killed at the storming 
of Stony Point; others say he was drowned in the 
squall at the foot of Anthony's Nose. I don't know; 
he never came back again." 

40 ''Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster.?" 

41 "He went off to the wars, too, was a great 
militia general, and is now in Congress." 

42 Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad 
changes in his home and friends, and finding himself 
thus alone in the world. Every answer puzzled him, 
too, by treating of such enormous lapses of time, and 
of matters which he could not understand, — war. 
Congress, Stony Point. He had no courage to ask 
after any more friends, but cried out in despair, 
" Does nobody here know Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

43 ' ' Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three. 
"Oh, to be sure! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, 
leaning against the tree." 

44 Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of 
himself, as he went up the mountain, apparently as 
lazy, and certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was 
now completely confounded. He doubted his own 
identity, and whether he was himself or another man. 



46 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

In the midst of his bewilderment, the man in the 
cocked hat demanded who he was and what was his 
name. 

45 "God knows!" exclaimed he, at his wits' end. 
"I'm not myself: I'm somebody else. That's me 
yonder. No, that's somebody else got into my shoes, 
I was myself last night: but I fell asleep on the 
mountain; and they've changed my gun; and every- 
thing 's changed; and I'm changed; and I can't tell 
what's my name, or who I am!" 

46 The bystanders began now to look at each 
other, nod, wink significantly, and tap their fingers 
against their foreheads. There was a whisper, also, 
about securing the gun, and keeping the old fellow 
from doing mischief, at the very suggestion of which 
the self-important man in the cocked hat retired with 
some precipitation. At this critical moment a fresh, 
comely woman pressed through the throng to get a 
peep at the gray-bearded man. She had a chubby 
child in her arms, which, frightened at his looks, 
began to cry. "Hush, Rip!" cried she. "Hush, 
you little fool! The old man won't hurt you." 

47 The name of the child, the air of the mother, 
the tone of her voice, all awakened a train of recol- 
lections in his mind. " What is your name, my good 
woman ? " asked he. 

48 " Judith Gardenier. " 

49 "And your father's name 1 " 

50 "Ah, poor man, his name was Rip Van Winkle. 



RJP VAN WINKLE. 47 

It 's twenty years since he went away from home with 
his gun and never has been heard of since. His dog 
came home without him; but whether he shot himself, 
or was carried away by the Indians, nobody can tell. 
I was then but a little girl. " 

51 Rip had but one question more to ask, but he 
put it with a faltering voice: — 

52 '* Where 's your mother } " 

53 Oh, she too had died but a short time since. 
She broke a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a 
New England peddler. 

54 There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this 
intelligence. The honest man could contain himself 
no longer. He caught his daughter and her child in 
his arms. *' I am your father ! " cried he, — ''young 
Rip Van Winkle once, old Rip Van Winkle now ! 
Does nobody know poor Rip Van Winkle 1 " 

55 All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering 
out from among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, 
and, peering under it in his face for a moment, ex- 
claimed, ''Sure enough! It is Rip Van Wrinkle! 
It is himself ! Welcome home again, old neighbor ! 
Why, where have you been these twenty long 
years } ' ' 

56 Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty 
years had been to him but as one night. The neigh- 
bors stared when they heard it. Some were seen to 
wink at each other, and put their tongues in their 
cheeks; and the self-important man in the cocked 



48 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

hat, who, when the alarm was over, had returned to 
the field, screwed down the corners of his mouth, and 
shook his head, upon which there was a general 
shaking of the head throughout the assemblage. 

57 It was determined, however, to take the opinion 
of old Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly ad- 
vancing up the road. He was a descendant of the 
historian of that name, who wrote one of the earliest 
accounts of the province. Peter was the most an- 
cient inhabitant of the village, and well versed in all 
the wonderful events and traditions of the neighbor- 
hood. He recollected Rip at once, and corroborated 
his story in the most satisfactory manner. He assured 
the company that it was a fact, handed down from 
his ancestor, the historian, that the Catskill Mountains 
had always been haunted by strange beings; that it 
was affirmed that the great Hendrick Hudson, the 
first discoverer of the river and country, kept a kind 
of vigil there every twenty years, with his crew of 
the Half-moon, being permitted in this way to revisit 
the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guardian eye 
upon the river, and the great city called by his name; 
that his father had once seen them in their old Dutch 
dresses, playing at ninepins in the hollow of the 
mountain, and that he himself had heard, one sum- 
mer afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant 
peals of thunder. 

58 To make a long story short, the company broke 
up, and returned to the more important concerns of 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 49 

the election. Rip's daughter took him home to Hve 
with her. She had a snug, well-furnished house, and 
a stout, cheery farmer for a husband, whom Rip rec- 
ollected for one of the urchins that used to climb 
upon his back. As to Rip's son and heir, who was 
the ditto of himself, seen leaning against the tree, he 
was employed to work on the farm, but evinced a 
hereditary disposition to attend to anything else but 
his business. 

59 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits. 
He soon found many of his former cronies, though all 
rather the worse for the wear and tear of time, and 
preferred making friends among the rising generation, 
with whom he soon grew into great favor. 

60 Having nothing to do at home, and being ar- 
rived at that happy age when a man can do nothing with 
impunity, he took his place once more on the bench 
at the inn door, and was reverenced as one of the 
patriarchs of the village, and a chronicle of the old 
times '' before the war." It was some time before he 
could get into the regular track of gossip, or could be 
made to comprehend the strange events that had 
taken place during his torpor, — how that there had 
been a revolutionary war; that the country had thrown 
off the yoke of old England, and that, instead of being 
a subject of his Majesty George HI, he was now a 
free citizen of the United States. Rip, in fact, was 
no politician, — the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him, — but there was 

4 



50 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

one species of despotism under which he had long 
groaned, and that was, petticoat government. Hap- 
pily, that was at an end. He had got his neck out of 
the yoke of matrimony, and could go in and out when- 
ever he pleased, without dreading the tyranny of Dame 
Van Wmkle. Whenever her name was mentioned, 
however, he shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, 
and cast up his eyes; which might pass either for an 
expression of resignation to his fate, or joy at his 
deliverance. 

61 He used to tell his story to every stranger that 
arrived at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed at 
first to vary on some points every time he told it, 
which was doubtless owing to his having so recently 
awakened. It at last settled down precisely to the 
tale I have related; and not a man, woman, or child 
in the neighborhood but knew it by heart. Some al- 
ways pretended to doubt the reality of it, and insisted 
that Rip had been out of his head, and that this was 
one point on which he always remained flighty. The 
old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost universally 
gave it full credit. Even to this^day they never hear 
a'thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about the Cats- 
kill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his crew are 
at their game of ninepins; and it is a common wish 
of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighborhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's 
flagon. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 5 I 



NOTE. 



The foregoing tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to Mr. 
Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the emperor Fred- 
erick der Rothbart and the Kyphauser Mountain; the subjoined note, 
however, which he had appended to the tale, shows that it is an abso- 
lute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity: — 

"The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many; but 
nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of our old 
Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvelous events and 
appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger stories than this, in 
the villages along the Hudson, all of which were too well authenticated 
to admit of a doubt. I have even talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, 
who, when I last saw him, was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly 
rational and consistent on every other point, that I think no con- 
scientious person could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have 
seen a certificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, therefore, is 
beyond the possibility of a doubt." 

POSTSCRIPT. 

The following are traveling notes from a memorandum-book of Mr. 
Knickerbocker :— 

"The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 
full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, who 
influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the landscape, 
and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were ruled by an old 
squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt on the highest peak of 
the Catskills, and had charge of the doors of day and night to open and 
shut them at the proper hour. She hung up the new moons in the skies, 
and cut up the old ones into stars. In times of drought, if properly 
propitiated, she would spin light summer clouds out of cobwebs and 
morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake 
after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved 
by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the 
grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. 
If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting 



52 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; 
and when these clouds broke, woe betide the valleys ! 

"In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Mani- 
tou, or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Moun- 
tains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and 
vexations upon the redmen. Sometimes he would assume the form of a 
bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase 
through tangled forests and among r agged rocks, and then spring off 
with a loud 'ho, ho!' leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling 
precipice or raging torrent." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 



(Found among the Papers of the Late Diedrich Knickerbocker.) 

"A pleasing land of drowsy head it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye; 
And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
Forever flushing round a summer sky." 

— Castle of Indolence?- 

1 In the bosom of one of those spacious coves 
which indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that 
broad expansion of the river denominated by the 
ancient Dutch navigators the Tappan Zee, and where 
they always prudently shortened sail, and implored 
the protection of St. Nicholas when they crossed, 
there lies a small market town or rural port, which 
by some is called Greensburgh, but which is more 
generally and properly known by the name of ' ' Tarry- 
town. ' ' This name was given it, we are told, in 
former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their hus- 
bands to linger about the village tavern on market 
days. Be that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, 
but merely advert to it for the sake of being precise 
and authentic. Not far from this village, perhaps 
about three miles, there is a little valley, or rather 
lap of land, among high hills, which is one of the 

ijames Thomson (1700-1748) was the son of a Scotch minister, and author of The 
Seasons, which gave him a great reputation. The " Castle of Indolence," from which 
the above verse is quoted, was his last work. 

53 



54 ^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

quietest places in the whole world. A small brook 
glides through it, with just murmur enough to lull one 
to repose; and the occasional whistle of a quail, or 
tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only sound 
that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 

2 I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit 
in squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut 
trees that shades one side of the valley. I had wan- 
dered into it at noontime, when all nature is pecul- 
iarly quiet, and was startled by the roar of my own 
gun, as it broke the Sabbath stillness around, and was 
prolonged and reverberated by the angry echoes. If 
ever I should wish for a retreat, whither I might steal 
from the world and its distractions, and dream quietly 
away the remnant of a troubled life, I know of none 
more promising than this little valley. 

3 From the listless repose of the place, and the 
peculiar character of its inhabitants, who are descend- 
ants from the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered 
glen has long been known by the name of '^Sleepy 
Hollow, ' ' and its rustic lads are called the * ' Sleepy 
Hollow Boys" throughout all the neighboring coun- 
try. A drowsy, dreamy influence seems to hang over 
the land, and to pervade the very atmosphere. Some 
say that the place was bewitched by a high German 
doctor during the early days of the settlement; others, 
that an old Indian chief, the prophet or wizard of his 
tribe, held his powwows there before the country was 
discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson.^ Certain it 

lA distinguished English navigator, who made four voyages. On the third of 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 55 

is, the place still continues under the sway of some 
witching power, that holds a spell over the minds of 
the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvelous 
beliefs; are subject to trances and visions; and fre- 
quently see strange sights, and hear music and voices 
in the air. The whole neighborhood abounds with 
local tales, haunted spots, and twilight superstitions; 
stars shoot and meteors glare oftener across the val- 
ley than in any other part of the country; and the 
nightmare, with her whole ninefold,^ seems to make 
it the favorite scene of her gambols. 

4 The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this 
enchanted region, and seems to be commander-in- 
chief of all the powers of the air, is the apparition of 
a figure on horseback without a head. It is said by 
some to be the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose 
head had been carried away by a cannon-ball in some 
nameless battle during the Revolutionary war, and 
who is ever and anon seen by the country folk hurry- 
ing along in the gloom of night, as if on the wings of 
the wind. His haunts are not confined to the valley, 
but extend at times to the adjacent roads and espe- 
cially to the vicinity of a church that is at no great 
distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic his- 
torians of those parts, who have been careful in col- 
lecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 



these voyages he entered the bay now called New York Bay, and (Sept. ii, 1609) 
sailed up what is now the Hudson River. 
1 See King Lear, act iii. sc. 4. 



$6 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

specter, allege that, the body of the trooper having 
been buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth 
to the scene of battle in nightly quest of his head; 
and that the rushing speed with which he sometimes 
passes along the hollow, like a midnight blast, is ow- 
ing to his being belated, and in a hurry to get back 
to the churchyard before daybreak. 

5 Such is the general purport of this legendary 
superstition, which has furnished materials for many 
a wild story in that region of shadows; and the spec- 
ter is known at all the country firesides by the name 
of "The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow." 

6 It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I 
have mentioned is not confined to the native inhab- 
itants of the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by 
everyone who resides there for a time. However 
wide awake they may have been before they entered 
that sleepy region, they are sure, in a little time, to 
inhale the witching influence of the air, and begin to 
grow imaginative, — to dream dreams, and see appa- 
ritions. 

7 I mention this peaceful spot with all possible 
laud: for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, 
found here and there embosomed in the great State 
of New York, that population, manners, and customs 
remain fixed; while the great torrent of migration and 
improvement, which is making such incessant changes 
in other parts of this restless country, sweeps by them 
unobserved. They are like those little nooks of still 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. S7 

water which border a rapid stream, where we may 
see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or 
slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed 
by the rush of the passing current. Though many 
years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy shades of 
Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should not 
still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 

8 In this by-place of Nature there abode, in a re- 
mote period of American history, — that is to say, 
some thirty years since, — a worthy wight of the name 
of Ichabod Crane, who sojourned, or, as he expressed 
it, ' 'tarried," in Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of 
instructing the children of th6 vicinity. He was a 
native of Connecticut, — a State which supplies the 
Union with pioneers for the mind as well as for the 
forest, and sends forth yearly its legions of frontier 
woodmen and country schoolmasters. The cogno- 
men of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He 
was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, 
long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of 
his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, 
and his whole frame most loosely hung together. 
His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, 
large, green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so 
that it looked like a weathercock perched upon his 
spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To 
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy 
day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, 



58 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine 
descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped 
from a cornfield. 

9 His schoolhouse was a low building of one large 
room, rudely constructed of logs; the windows partly 
glazed, and partly patched with leaves of old copy- 
books. It was most ingeniously secured at vacant 
hours by a withe twisted in the handle of the door, 
and stakes set against the window shutters; so that, 
though a thief might get in with perfect ease, he 
would find some embarrassment in getting out, — an 
idea most probably borrowed by the architect, Yost 
Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel-pot.^ The 
schoolhouse stood in a rather lonely but pleasant 
situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a 
brook running close by, and a formidable birch-tree 
growing at one end of it. From hence the low mur- 
mur of his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, 
might be heard of a drowsy summer's day, like the 
hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the 
authoritative voice of the master in the tone of men- 
ace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling 
sound of the birch as he urged some tardy loiterer 
along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, 
he was a conscientious man, that ever bore in mind 
the golden maxim, *' Spare the rod and spoil the 
child. ' ' ^ Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly were not 
spoiled. 

1 A box or basket for catching eels, 

2 King Solomon's, 



THE LEGEND OP SLEEPY HOLLOW. 59 

10 I would not have it imagined, however, that he 
was one of those cruel potentates of the school who 
joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, 
he administered justice with discrimination rather than 
severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, 
and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny 
stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, 
was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of jus- 
tice were satisfied by inflicting a double porticfn on 
some little, tough, wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch 
urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and 
sullen beneath the birch. All this he called ' ' doing 
his duty by their parents;" and he never inflicted a 
chastisement without following it by the assurance, 
so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that " he would 
remember it and thank him for it the longest day he 
had to live." 

11 When school hours were over, he was even the 
companion and playmate of the larger boys, and on 
holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller 
ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or 
good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts 
of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep 
on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising 
from his school was small, and would have been 
scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for 
he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilat- 
ing powers of an anaconda; but to help out his main- 
tenance, he was, according to country custom in those 



6o THE SKETCH BOOK. 

parts, boarded and lodged at the houses of the farm- 
ers whose children he instructed. With these he 
lived successively a week at a time; thus going the 
rounds of the neighborhood, with all his worldly 
effects tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

12 That all this might not be too onerous on the 
purses of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider 
the costs of schooling a grievous burden, and school- 
masters as mere drones, he had various ways of ren- 
dering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted 
the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their 
farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took 
the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and 
cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all 
the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which 
he lorded it in his little empire the school, and becam© 
wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor 
in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, 
particularly the youngest; and like ''the Hon bold," 
which whilom so magnanimously ''the lamb did 
hold," he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock 
a cradle with his foot for whole hours together. 

13 In addition to his other vocations, he was the 
singing-master of the neighborhood, and picked up 
many bright shiUings by instructing the young folks in 
psalmody. It was a matter of no Httle vanity to him 
on Sundays, to take his station in front of the church 
gallery, with a band of chosen singers, where, in his 
own mind, he completely carried away the palm from 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 6 1 

the parson. Certain it is, his voice resounded far 
above all the rest of the congregation; and there are 
peculiar quavers still to be heard in that church, and 
which may even be heard half a mile off, quite to the 
opposite side of the mill pond, on a still Sunday morn- 
ing, which are said to be legitimately descended from 
the nose of Ichabod Crane. Thus, by divers httle 
makeshifts in that ingenious way which is commonly 
denominated *'by hook and by crook," the worthy 
pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was thought, 
by all who understood nothing of the labor of head- 
work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

14 The schoolmaster is generally a man of some 
importance in the female circle of a rural neighbor- 
hood, being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanhke 
personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplish- 
ments to the rough country swains, and, indeed, 
inferior in learning only to the parson. His appear- 
ance, therefore, is apt to occasion some little stir at 
the tea table of a farmhouse, and the addition of a 
supernumerary dish of cakes or sweetmeats, or, per- 
adventure, the parade of a silver teapot. Our man 
of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 
smiles of all the country damsels. How he would 
figure among them in the churchyard, between serv- 
ices on Sundays! gathering grapes for them from the 
wild vines that overrun the surrounding trees; reciting 
for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tomb- 
stones; or sauntering with a whole bevy of them 



62 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

along the banks of the adjacent mill-pond; while the 
more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, 
envying his superior elegance and address. 

15 From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind 
of traveling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house; so that his appearance 
v/as always greeted with satisfaction. He was, more- 
over, esteemed by the women as a man of great eru- 
dition, for he had read several books quite through, 
and was a perfect master of Cotton Mather's * ' His- 
tory of New England Witchcraft;" in which, by the 
way, he most firmly and potently believed. 

i6 He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewd- 
ness and simple credulity. His appetite for the mar- 
velous, and his powers of digesting it, were equally 
extraordinary; and both has been increased by "his 
residence in this spell-bound region. No tale was 
too gross or monstrous for his capacious swallow. It 
was often his delight, after his school was dismissed 
in the afternoon, to stretch himself on the rich bed of 
clover bordering the little brook that whimpered by 
his schoolhouse, and there con over old Mather's 
direful tales, until the gathering dusk of evening made 
the printed page a mere mist before his eyes. Then, 
as he wended his way, by swamp and stream and 
awful woodland, to the farmhouse where he happened 

lA celebrated theologian and writer, son of Increase Mather, born in Boston in 
1663. He was ordained as a minister in 1684, and preached in Boston. From the 
first he was eager to bring to trial and punishment those supposed to be guilty of 
witchcraft ; but he sincerely believed he was serving God in " witch hunting." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 63 

to be quartered, every sound of Nature, at that witch- 
ing hour, fluttered his excited imagination, — the 
moan of the whip-poor-wilP from the hillside; the 
boding cry of the treetoad, that harbinger of storm; 
the dreary hooting of the screech-owl; or the sudden 
rusthng in the thicket of birds frightened from their 
roost. The fireflies, too, which sparkled most viv- 
idly in the darkest places, now and then startled him, 
as one of uncommon brightness would stream across 
his path; and if by chance a huge blockhead of a 
beetle came winging his blundering flight against him, 
the poor varlet was ready to give up the ghost, with 
the idea that he was struck with a witch's token. 
His only resource on such occasions, either to drown 
thought or drive away evil spirits, was to sing psalm 
tunes; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, as they 
sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe at hearing his nasal melody, "in linked 
sweetness long drawn out," floating from the distant 
hill or along the dusky road. 

17 Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to 
pass long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, 
as they sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples 
roasting and sputtering along the hearth, and listen 
to their marvelous tales of ghosts and goblins, and 
haunted fields, and haunted brooks, and haunted 
bridges, and haunted houses, and particularly of the 



1 A whip-poor-will is a bird which is heard only at night. It receives its name 
from its note, which is thought to resemble those words. 



64 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

headless horseman, or *' Galloping Hessian of the 
Hollow," as they sometimes called him. He would 
delight them equally by his anecdotes of witchcraft, 
and of the direful omens and portentous sights and 
sounds in the air, which prevailed in the earlier times 
cf Connecticut, and would frighten them woefully with 
speculations upon comets and shooting stars, and 
with the alarming fact that the world did absolutely 
turn round, and that they were half the time topsy- 
turvy. 

18 But if there was a pleasure in all this, while 
snugly cuddling in the chimney corner of a chamber 
that was all of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood 
fire, and where, of course, no specter dared to show 
its face, it was dearly purchased by the terrors of his 
subsequent walk homeward. What fearful shapes 
and shadows beset his path amidst the dim and 
ghastly glare of a snowy night ! With what wistful 
look did he eye every trembling ray of light streaming 
across the waste fields from some distant window ! 
How often was he appalled by some shrub covered 
with snow, which, like a sheeted specter, beset his 
very path ! How often did he shrink with curdling 
awe at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust 
beneath his feet, and dread to look over his shoulder, 
lest he should behold some uncouth being tramping 
close behind him ! and how often was he thrown into 
complete dismay by some rushing blast, howling 
among the trees, in the idea that it was the Galloping 
Hessian on one of his nightly scourings ! 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 65 

19 All these, however, were mere terrors of the 
night, phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness; 
and though he had seen many specters in his time, 
and been more than once beset by Satan in divers 
shapes in his lonely perambulations, yet daylight put 
an end to all these evils; and he would have passed a 
pleasant hfe of it, in despite of the Devil and all his 
works, if his path had not been crossed by a being 
that causes more perplexity to mortal m_an than 
ghosts, gobhns, and the whole race of witches put 
together, and that was — a woman. 

20 Among the musical disciples who assembled one 
evening in each week to receive his instructions in 
psalmody, was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and 
only child of a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a 
blooming lass of fresh eighteen; plump as a partridge; 
ripe and melting and rosy-cheeked as one of her 
father's peaches; and universally famed, not merely 
for her beauty, but her vast expectations. She was, 
withal, a little of a coquette, as might be perceived 
even in her dress, which was a mixture of ancient and 
modern fashions, as most suited to set off her charms. 
She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold which 
her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
Saardam; the tempting stomacher of the olden time; 
and, withal, a provokingly short petticoat, to display 
the prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

21 Ichabod Grane had a soft and foolish heart 
toward the sex; and it is not to be wondered at that so 

5 



66 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

tempting a morsel soon found favor in his eyes, more 
especially after he had visited her in her paternal man- 
sion. Old Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture 
of a thriving, contented, liberal-hearted farmer. He 
seldom, it is true, sent either his eyes or his thoughts, 
beyond the boundaries of his own farm; but within 
these everything was snug, happy, and well-condi- 
tioned. He was satisfied with his wealth, but not 
proud of it, and piqued himself upon the hearty 
abundance rather than the st3de in which he lived. 
His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hud- 
son, in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in 
which the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A 
great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it, at 
the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest 
and sweetest water in a little well formed of a barrel, 
and then stole sparkling away through the grass to a 
neighboring brook that babbled along among alders 
and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a 
vast barn that might have served for a church, every 
window and crevice of which seemed bursting forth 
with the treasures of the farm. The flail was busily 
resounding within it from morning to night; swallows 
and martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and 
rows of pigeons — some with one eye turned up, as if 
watching the weather; some with their heads under 
their wings or buried in their bosoms; and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames 
— were enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek, 



THE LEGEND OE SLEEPY HOLLOW. 6/ 

unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and 
abundance of their pens; from whence saUied forth, 
now and then, troops of sucking pigs, as if to snuff 
the air. A stately squadron of snowy geese were rid- 
ing in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks. Regiments of turkeys were gobbling through 
the farmyard, and guinea-fowls fretting about it hke 
ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish, discon- 
tented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings and crowing 
in the pride and gladness of his heart, sometimes tear- 
ing up the earth with his feet, and then generously 
calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to 
enjoy the rich morsel which he had discovered. 

22 The pedagogue's mouth watered as he looked 
upon this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. 
In his devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself 
every roasting pig, running about *^with a pudding in 
its belly ' ' and an apple in its mouth ; the pigeons were 
snugly put to bed in a comfortable pie, and tucked in 
with a coverlet of crust; the geese were swimming in 
their own gravy; and the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, 
like snug married couples, with a decent competency 
of onion sauce. In the porkers he saw carved out the 
future sleek side of bacon, and juicy, relishing ham; 
not a turkey but he beheld daintily trussed up, with 
its gizzard under its wing, and, peradventure, a neck- 
lace of savory sausages; and even bright chanticleer 



68 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

himself lay sprawling on his back, in a side-dish, with 
uplifted claws, as if craving that quarter which his 
chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while living. 

23 As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and 
as he rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow- 
lands, the rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat 
and Indian corn, and the orchards burdened with 
ruddy fruit, which surrounded the warm tenement of 
Van Tassel, his heart yearned after the damsel who 
was to inherit these domains; and his imagination 
expanded with the idea, how they might be readily 
turned into cash, and the money invested in immense 
tracts of wild land, and shingle palaces in the wilder- 
ness. Nay, his busy fancy already realized his hopeS; 
and presented to him the blooming Katrina, with a 
whole family of children, mounted on top of a wagon 
loaded with household trumpery, with pots and kettles 
dangling beneath; and he beheld himself bestriding a 
pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, setting out for 
Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows where. 

24 When he entered the house, the conquest of his 
heart was complete. It was one of those spacious 
farmhouses, with high-ridged but lowly-sloping roofs, 
built in the style handed down from the first Dutch 
settlers; the low, projecting eaves forming a piazza 
along the front, capable of being closed up in bad 
weather. Under this were hung flails, harness, va- 
rious utensils of husbandry, and nets for fishing in the 
neighboring river. Benches were built along the sides 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW, 69 

for summer use; and a great spinning-wheel at one 
end, and a churn at the other, showed the various 
uses to which this important porch might be devoted. 
From this piazza the wonderful Ichabod entered the 
hall, which formed the center of the mansion, and 
the place of usual residence. Here rows of resplen- 
dent pewler, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his 
eyes. In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready 
to be spun; in another, a quantity of linsey-woolsey^ 
just from the loom. Ears of Indian corn, and strings 
of dried apples and peaches, hung in gay festoons 
along the walls, mingled with the gaud of red pep- 
pers; and a door left ajar gave him a peep into the 
best parlor, where the claw-footed chairs and dark 
mahogany tables shone like mirrors; and irons, with 
their accompanying shovel and tongs, glistened from 
their covert of asparagus tops; mock-oranges and 
conch-shells decorated the mantelpiece; strings of 
various colored bird's eggs were suspended above it; 
a great ostrich Qg^ was hung from the center of the 
room; and a corner cupboard, knowingly left open, 
displayed immense treasures of old silver and well- 
mended china. 

25 From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon 
these regions of delight, the peace of his mind was 
at an end, and his only study was how to gain the 
affections of the peerless daughter of Van Tassel. In 
this enterprise, however, he had more real difBculties 

I Coarse cloth. 



70 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

than generally fell to the lot of a knight-errant of 
yore, who seldom had anything but giants, en- 
chanters, fiery dragons, and such-hke easily con- 
quered adversaries to contend with; and had to make 
his way merely through gates of iron and brass, and 
walls of adamant, to the castle keep, where the lady 
of his heart was confined, — all which he achieved 
as easily as a man would carve his way to the center 
of a Christmas pie, and then the lady gave him her 
hand as a matter of course. Ichabod, on the con- 
trary, had to win his way to the heart of a country 
coquette, beset with a labyrinth of whims and ca- 
prices, which were forever presenting new difficulties 
and impediments; and he had to encounter a host of 
fearful adversaries of real flesh and blood, the numer- 
ous rustic admirers, who beset every portal to her 
heart, keeping a watchful and angry eye upon each 
other, but ready to fly out in the common cause 
against any new competitor. 

26 Among these the m.ost formidable was a burly, 
roaring, roystering blade, of the name of Abraham, 
or, according to the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van 
Brunt, the hero of the country round, which rang 
with his feats of strength and hardihood. He was 
broad-shouldered and double-jointed, with short, 
curly black hair, and a bluff but not unpleasant 
countenance, having a mingled air of fun and ar- 
rogance. From his Herculean frame and great pow- 
ers of limb, he had received the nickname of ' ' Brom 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY LIOLLOW. 7 1 

Bones," by which he was universally known. He 
was famed for great knowledge and skill in horse- 
manship, being as dexterous on horseback as a 
Tartar. He was foremost at all races and cock- 
fights, and, with the ascendency which bodily strength 
always acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in all 
disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his 
decisions with an air and tone that admitted of no 
gainsay or appeal. He was always ready for either 
a fight or a frolic; had more mischief than ill will in 
his composition; and, with all his overbearing rough- 
ness, there was a strong dash of waggish good-humor 
at bottom. He had three or four boon companions 
of his own stamp, who regarded him as their model, 
and at the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles 
around. In cold weather he was distinguished by a 
fur cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail; and 
when the folks at a country gathering descried this 
well-known crest at a distance, whisking about among 
a squad of hard riders, they always stood by for a 
squall. Sometimes his crew would be heard dashing 
along past the farmhouses at midnight, with whoop 
and halloo, like a troop of Don Cossacks; and the 
old dames, startled out of their sleep, would listen 
for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clattered by, 
and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones and 
his gang ! " The neighbors looked upon him with a 
mixture of awe, admiration, and good will, and, when 



72 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

any madcap prank or rustic brawl occurred in the 
vicinity, always shook their heads, and warranted 
Brom Bones was at the bottom of it. 

27 This rantipole ^ hero had for some time singled 
out the blooming Katrina for the object of his uncouth 
gallantries, and though his amorous toyings were 
something like the gentle caresses and endearments 
of a bear, yet it was whispered that she did not alto- 
gether discourage his hopes. Certain it is, his ad- 
vances were signals for rival candidates to retire, who 
felt no inclination to cross a lion in his amours; inso- 
much, that when his horse was seen tied to Van Tas- 
sel's paling on a Sunday night, — a sure sign that his 
master was courting, or, as it is termed, ''sparking," 
within, — all other suitors passed by in despair, and 
carried the war into other quarters. 

28 Such was the formidable rival with whom Icha- 
bod Crane had to contend; and, considering all things, 
a stouter man than he would have shrunk from the 
competition, and a wiser man would have despaired. 
He had, however, a happy mixture of pliability and 
perseverance in his nature. He was in form and 
spirit like a supple-jack, — yielding, but tough; though 
he bent, he never broke; and though he bowed 
beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the moment it 
was away — jerk! he was as erect, and carried his 
head as high, as ever. 

29 To have taken the field openly against his rival 

lEriatic. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 73 

would have been madness; for he was not a man to 
be thwarted in this amours any more than that 
stormy lover Achilles/ Ichabod, therefore, made his 
advances in a quiet and gently insinuating manner. 
Under cover of his character of singing-master, he 
made frequent visits at the farmhouse; not that he 
had anything to apprehend from the meddlesome 
interference of parents, which is so often a stumbling- 
block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel was an 
easy, indulgent soul. He loved his daughter better 
even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and 
an excellent father, let her have her way in every- 
thing. His notable little wife, too, had enough to 
do to attend to her housekeeping and manage the 
poultry; for, as she sagely observed, ducks and geese 
are foolish things, and must be looked after, but girls 
can take care of themselves. Thus, while the busy 
dame bustled about the house, or plied her spinning- 
vv^heel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait would sit 
smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching the 
achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fight- 
ing the wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the 
meantime Ichabod would carry on his suit with the 
daughter by the side of the spring under the great 
elm, or sauntering along in the twilight, that hour so 
favorable to the lover's ^eloquence. 

30 I profess not to know how women's hearts are 

1 A famous Greek warrior of Homer's Iliad, 



74 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

wooed and won. To me they have always been mat- 
ters of riddle and admiration. Some seem to have 
but one vulnerable point, or door of access; while 
others have a thousand avenues, and may be captured 
in a thousand different ways. It is a great triumph 
of skill to gain the former, but a still greater proof of 
generalship to maintain possession of the latter, for a 
man must battle for his fortress at every door and 
window. He who wins a thousand common hearts is 
therefore entitled to some renown; but he who keeps 
undisputed sway over the heart of a coquette is indeed 
a hero. Certain it is, this was not the case with the 
redoubtable Brom Bones; and, from the moment 
Ichabod Crane made his advances, the interests of the 
former evidently declined. His horse was no longer 
seen tied at the palings on Sunday nights, and a 
deadly feud gradually arose between him and the pre- 
ceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 

31 Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in 
his nature, would fain have carried matters to open 
warfare, and settled their pretensions to the lady 
according to the mood of those most concise and 
simple reasoners, the knights-errant of yore, by single 
combat; but Ichabod was too conscious of the superior 
might of his adversary to enter the lists against him. 
He had overheard the boast of Bones, that he would 
*< double the schoolmaster up and put him on a 
shelf;" and he was too wary to give an opportunity. 
There was something extremely provoking in this 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 75 

obstinately pacific system: it left Brom no alternative 
but to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his 
disposition, and to play off boorish practical jokes 
upon his rival. Ichabod became the object of whim- 
sical persecution to Bones and his gang of rough 
riders. They harried his hitherto peaceful domains; 
smoked out his singing-school by stopping up the 
chimney; broke into the schoolhouse at night, in spite 
of its formidable fastenings of withe and window 
stakes, and turned everything topsy-turvy; so that 
the poor schoolmaster began to think all the witches 
in the country held their meetings there. But, what 
was still more annoying, Brom took all opportunities 
of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mis- 
tress, and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to 
whine in the most ludicrous manner, and introduced 
as a rival of Ichabod 's to instruct her in psalmody. 
32 In this way matters went on for some time, 
without producing any material effect on the relative 
situations of the contending powers. On a fine 
autumnal afternoon, Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat 
enthroned on the lofty stool from whence he usually 
watched all the concerns of his little literary realm. 
In his hand he swayed a ferule, that scepter of 
despotic power; the birch of justice reposed on three 
nails behind the throne, a constant terror to evil 
doers; while on the desk before him might be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, 
detected upon the persons of idle urchins, such as 



76 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

half-munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, 
and whole legions of rampant httle paper game-cocks. 
Apparently there had been some appalling act of 
justice recently inflicted; for his scholars were all 
busily intent upon their books, or slyly whispering 
behind them with one eye kept upon the master, and 
a kind of buzzing stillness reigned throughout the 
schoolroom. It was suddenly interrupted by the 
appearance of a negro, m tow-cloth jacket and 
trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, like the 
cap of Mercury,^ and mounted on the back of a 
ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed 
with a rope by way of halter. He came clattering 
up to the school door with an invitation to Ichabod to 
attend a merry-making, or "quilting frolic," to be 
held that evening at Mynheer Van Tassel's; and hav- 
ing delivered his message with that air of importance, 
and effort at fine language, which a negro is apt to 
display on petty embassies of the kind, he dashed 
over the brook, and was seen scampering away up 
the hollow, full of the importance and hurry of his 
mission. 

ZZ All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet 
schoolroom. The scholars were hurried through 
their lessons without stopping at trifles. Those who 
were nimble skipped over half with impunity; and 
those who were tardy had a smart application now 
and then in the rear, to quicken their speed, or help 

1 A Roman god who presided over all commercial dealings. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 77 

them over a tall word. Books were flung aside with- 
out being put away on the shelves; inkstands were 
overturned, benches thrown down; and the whole 
school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth Hke a legion of young imps, yelp- 
ing and racketing about the green, in joy at their 
early emancipation. 

34 The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra 
half hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his 
best and indeed only suit of rusty black, and arrang- 
ing his looks by a bit of broken looking-glass that 
hung up in the schoolhouse. That he might make his 
appearance before his mistress in the true style of a cava- 
lier, he borrowed a horse from the farmer with whom 
he was domiciliated, a choleric old Dutchman of the 
name of Hans Van Ripper, and, thus gallantly mounted, 
issued forth, like a knight-errant in quest of adventures. 
But it is meet I should, in the true spirit of romantic 
story, give some account of the looks and equipments 
of my hero and his steed. The animal he bestrode was 
a broken-down plow-horse, that had outlived almost 
everything but his viciousness. He was gaunt and 
shagged, with a ewe neck, and a head like a hammer. 
His rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted with 
burrs. One eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring 
and spectral, but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in 
his day, if we may judge from his name, which was 
Gunpowder. He had, in fact, been a favorite steed 



78 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

of his master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was 
a furious rider, and had infused, very probably, some 
of his own spirit into the animal; for, old and broken- 
down as he looked, there was more of the lurking 
devil in him than in any young filly in the country. 

35 Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. 
He rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees 
nearly up to the pommel of the saddle; his sharp 
elbows stuck out like grasshoppers'; he carried his 
whip perpendicularly in his hand, hke a scepter; and, 
as the horse jogged on, the motion of his arms was 
not unhke the flapping of a pair of wings. A small 
wool hat rested on the top of his nose, for so his 
scanty strip of forehead might be called; and the 
skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod 
and his steed, as they shambled out of the gate of 
Hans Van Ripper; and it was altogether such an 
apparition as is seldom to be me met with in broad 
daylight. 

36 It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day. 
The sky was clear and serene, and nature wore that 
rich and golden livery which we always associate with 
the idea of abundance. The forests had put on their 
sober brown and yellow, while some trees of the ten- 
derer kind had been nipped by the frost into brilliant 
dyes of orange, purple, and scarlet. Streaming files 
of wild ducks began to make their appearance high 
in the air. The bark of the squirrel might be heard 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 79 

from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, and the 
pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the 
neighboring stubble-field. 

37 The small birds were taking their farewell ban- 
quets. In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, 
chirping and frolicking, from bush to bush and tree to 
tree, capricious from the very profusion and variety 
around them. There was the honest cock-robin, the 
favorite game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud, 
querulous note; and the twittering blackbirds flying in 
sable clouds; and the golden-winged woodpecker, 
with his crimson crest, his broad, black gorget, and 
splendid plumage; and the cedar bird, with its red- 
tipped wings and yellow-tipped tail, and its little 
montero cap^ of feathers; and the blue jay, that 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay, light-blue coat and white 
underclothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and 
bobbing and bowing, and pretending to be on good 
terms with every songster of the grove. 

Z^ As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, 
ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, 
ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. 
On all sides he beheld vast store of apples, — some 
hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees, some 
gathered into baskets and barrels for the market, 
others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. 
Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with 



1 Montero cap (Spanish, ;;?^k/^^^), a kind of cap, originally a hunting-cap ; from 
montero (" a huntsman "). 



8o THE SKETCH BOOK. 

its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts and 
holding out the promise of cakes and hasty pudding; 
and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning 
up their fair, round bellies to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and 
anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breath- 
ing the odor of the beehive; and as he beheld them, 
soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slap- 
jacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or 
treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina 
Van Tassel. 

39 Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts 
and "sugared suppositions," he journeyed along the 
sides of a range of hills which looked out upon some 
of the goodliest scenes of the mighty Hudson. The 
sun gradually wheeled his broad disc down into the 
west. The wide bosom of the Tappen Zee lay 
motionless and glassy, excepting that here and there 
a gentle undulation waved, and prolonged the blue 
shadow of the distant mountain. A few amber clouds 
floated in the sky, without a breath of air to move 
them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, chang- 
ing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that 
ixito the deep-blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray 
lingered on the woody crests of the precipices that 
overhung some parts of the river, giving greater depth 
to the dark gray and purple of their rocky sides. A 
sloop was loitering in the distance, dropping slowly 
down with the tide, her sail hanging uselessly against 
the mast; and as the reflection of the sky gleamed 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 8 1 

along the still water, it seemed as if the vessel was 
suspended in the air. 

40 It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived 
at the castle of Herr Van Tassel, which he found 
thronged with the pride and flower of the adjacent 
country, — old farmers, a spare, leathern-faced race, 
in homespun coats and breeches, blue stockings, huge 
shoes, and magnificent pewter buckles; their brisk, 
withered little dames, in close-crimped caps, long- 
waisted gowns, homespun petticoats, with scissors 
and pincushions, and gay calico pockets hanging on 
the outside; buxom lasses, almost as antiquated as 
their mothers, excepting where a stravv^ hat, a fine rib- 
bon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of city 
innovations; the sons, in short, square-skirted coats 
with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair 
generally queued in the fashion of the times, espe- 
cially if they could procure an eel-skin for the pur- 
pose, it being esteemed throughout the country as a 
potent nourisher and strengthener of the hair. 

41 Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the 
scene, having come to the gathering on his favorite 
steed. Daredevil, — a creature, like himself, full of 
m.ettle and mischief, and which no one but himself 
could manage. He was, in fact, noted for preferring 
vicious animals, given to all kinds of tricks, which 
kept the rider in constant risk of his neck; for he held 
a tractable, well-broken horse as unworthy of a lad of 
spirit. 

42 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of 

6 



82 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my 
hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel's 
miansion; not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with 
their luxurious display of red and white, but the 
ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea table, in 
the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped-up plat- 
ters of cakes of various and almost indescribable 
kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives ! 
There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly- 
koek,^ and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet 
cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, 
and the whole family of cakes; and then there were 
apple pies and peach pies and pumpkin pies; besides 
slices of ham and smoked beef; and, moreover, de- 
lectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and 
cream; all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as 
I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot 
sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst — 
heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to 
discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager 
to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane 
was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did 
ample justice to every dainty. 

4Z He was a kind and thankful creature, whose 
heart dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with 
good cheer, and whose spirits rose with eating as 

1 Doughnuts. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY' HOLLOW. 83 

some men's do with drink. He could not help, too, 
lolling his large eyes round him as he ate, and chuck- 
ling with the possibility that he might one day be lord 
of all this scene of almost unimaginable luxury and 
splendor. Then, he thought, how soon he 'd turn his 
back upon the old schoolhouse; snap his fingers in 
the face of Hans Van Ripper, and every other nig- 
gardly patron: and kick any itinerant pedagogue out 
of doors that should dare to call him comrade! 

44 Old Baltus Van Tassel m.oved about among his 
guests wdth a face dilated wdth content and good 
humor, round and jolly as the harvest moon. His 
hospitable attentions were brief but expressive, being 
confined to a shake of the hand, a slap on the shoul- 
der, a loud laugh, and a pressing invitation to ' ' fall 
to, and help themselves." 

45 And now^ the sound of the m.usic from, the com- 
mon room, or hall, summ.oned to the dance. The 
musician was an old grayheaded negro, who had been 
the itinerant orchestra of the neighborhood for more 
than half a century. His instrument was as old and 
battered as himself. The greater part of the time he 
scraped away on two or three strings, accompanying 
every movement of the bow with a motion of the 
head, bowing almost to the ground, and stamping 
with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to start. 

46 Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as 
much as upon his vocal pov/ers. Not a limb, not a 
fiber about him, w^as idle; and to have seen his loosely 



84 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

hung frame in full motion, and clattering about the 
room, you would have thought St. Vitus ^ himself, 
that blessed patron of the dance, was figuring before 
you in person. He was the admiration of all the 
negroes, who, having gathered, of all ages and sizes, 
from the farm and the neighborhood, stood forming 
a pyramid of shining black faces at every door and 
windovv^, gazing with delight at the scene, rolling 
their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of 
ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of 
urchins be otherwise than animated and joyous.-^ The 
lady of his heart Vv^as his partner in the dance, and 
smiling graciously in reply to ail his amorous oglings; 
while Brom Bones, sorely smitten with love and 
jealousy, sat brooding by himself in one corner. 

47 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was 
attracted to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old 
Van Tassel, sat smoking at one end of the piazza, 
gossiping over former times, and drawling out long 
stories about the war. 

48 This neighborhood, at the time of which I am 
speaking, was one of those highly favored places 
which abound with chronicle and great men. The 
British and American line had run near it during the 
war; it had therefore been the scene of marauding, 
and infested with refugees, cowboys, and all kinds of 
border chivalr}^ Just sufficient time had elapsed to 



iThe patron saint of dancers and actors, and invoked against the disease known as 
■St. Vitus's dance." 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. cSs 

enable each storyteller to dress up his tale with a lit- 
tle becoming fiction, and, in the indistinctness of his 
recollection, to make himself the hero of every 
exploit. 

49 There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large, 
blue-bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a 
British frigate with an old iron nine-pounder from 
a mud breastwork, only that his gun burst at the sixth 
discharge. And there was an old gentleman who 
shall be nameless, being too rich a mynheer^ to be 
lightly mentioned, who in the battle of Whiteplains, 
being an excellent master of defense, parried a mus- 
ket-ball with a small sword, insomuch that he abso- 
lutely felt it whiz round the blade, and glance off at 
the hilt, in proof of which he was ready at any time 
to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. There 
were several more that had been equally great in the 
field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he had 
a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
termination. 

50 But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts 
and apparitions that succeeded. The neighborhood 
is rich in legendary treasures of the kind. Local 
tales and superstitions thrive best in these sheltered, 
long-settled retreats, but are trampled underfoot by 
the shifting throng that forms the population of most 
of our country places. Besides, there is no encour- 



1 From the Dutch mijn heer, equivalent to the German mein Herr ( " my master," 
' my lord " ), our •' Sir " or " Mr." 



S6 THE SKETCH B OK. 

agement for ghosts in most of our villages, for they 
have scarcely had time to finish their first nap, and 
turn themselves in their graves, before their surviving 
friends have traveled away from the neighborhood; 
so that, when they turn out at night to walk their 
rounds, they have no acquaintance left to call upon. 
This is, perhaps, the reason why we so seldom hear 
of ghosts, except in our long-estabHshed Dutch com- 
munities. 

51 The immediate cause, however, of the prev- 
alence of supernatural stories in these parts, was 
doubtless owing to the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. 
There was a contagion in the very air that blew from 
that haunted region; it breathed forth an atmosphere 
of dreams and fancies infecting all the land. Several 
of the Sleepy Hollow people were present at Van 
Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling out their wild 
and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales were told 
about funeral trains, and mourning cries and wailings, 
heard and seen about the great tree where the unfor- 
tunate Major Andre ^ was taken, and which stood in 
the neighborhood. Some mention was made also of 
the woman in white that haunted the dark glen at 
Raven Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter 



1 Benedict Arnold, who commanded the American fortress of West Point, made 
arrangements to betray that place into the hands of the British general Sir Henry- 
Clinton. Andre was associated with Arnold in this plot, which was frustrated and 
defeated by the capture of Andre, who was tried by a court-martial, and condemned 
to be hung as a spy. In 1821 his remains were transferred to England, and interred 
in Westminster Abbey. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. ^7 

nights before a storm, having perished there in the 
snow. The chief part of the stories, however, turned 
upon the favorite specter of Sleepy Hollow, the head- 
less horseman, who had been heard several times of 
late, patrolling the country, and, it was said, tethered 
his horse nightly among the graves in the churchyard. 
52 The sequestered situation of this church seems 
always to have made it a favorite haunt of troubled 
spirits. It stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust 
trees and lofty elms, from among which its decent, 
whitewashed walls shine modestly forth, like Christian 
purity beaming through the shades of retirement. A 
gentle slope descends from it to a silver sheet of 
water, bordered by high trees, between which peeps 
may be caught at the blue hills of the Hudson. To 
look upon its grass-grown yard, where the sunbeams 
seem to sleep so quietly, one would think that there, 
at least, the dead might rest in peace. On one side 
of the church extends a wide, woody dell, along 
which raves a large brook among broken rocks and 
trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part of the 
stream, not far from the church, was formerly thrown 
a wooden bridge. The road that led to it, and the 
bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging 
trees, which cast a gloom about it, even in the day- 
time, but occasioned a fearful darkness at night. 
Such was one of the favorite haunts of the headless 
horsem.an, and the place where he was most fre- 
quently encountered. The tale was told of old 



88 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, — 
how he met the horseman returning from his foray 
into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind 
him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over 
hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge, when 
the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw 
old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over 
the tree-tops with a clap of thunder. 

53 This story was immediately matched by a thrice 
marvelous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light 
of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He 
affirmed, that, on returning one night from the neigh- 
boring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by 
this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race 
with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won 
it, too (for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow), 
but, just as they came to the church bridge, the Hes- 
sian bolted and vanished in a flash of fire. 

54 All these tales told in that drowsy undertone 
with which men talk in the dark, the countenances of 
the listeners only now and then receiving a casual 
gleam from the glare of a pipe, sank deep in the 
mind of Ichabod. He repaid them in kind with 
large extracts from his invaluable author, Cotton 
Mather, and added many marvelous events that had 
taken place in his native State of Connecticut, and 
fearful sights which he had seen in his nightly walks 
about Sleepy Hollow. 

55 The revel now gradually broke up. The old 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 89 

farmers gathered together their famihes in their wag- 
ons, and were heard for some time ratthng along the 
hollow roads, and over the distant hills. Some of the 
damsels mounted on pillions behind their favorite 
swains; and their light-hearted laughter, mingling 
with the clatter of hoofs, echoed along the silent 
w^oodlands, sounding fainter and fainter until they 
gradually died away, and the late scene of noise and 
frolic v/as all silent and deserted. Ichabod only lin- 
gered behind, according to the custom of country 
lovers, to have a tete-a-tete with the heiress, fully 
convinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this interview I w^ill not pretend to 
say, for in fact I do not know. Something, however, 
I fear me, must have gone wrong; for he certainly 
sallied forth, after no very great interval, with an air 
quite desolate and chopfallen. Oh, these women, 
these women! Could that girl have been pla3'dng off 
any of her coquettish tricks.? Was her encourage- 
ment of the poor pedagogue all a mere sham to secure 
her conquest of his rivai.'^ Heaven only knows, not 
I ! Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole forth with the 
air of one who had been sacking a henroost rather 
than a fair lady's heart. Without looking to the 
right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth on 
which he had so often gloated, he went straight to 
the stable, and, with several hearty cuffs and kicks, 
roused his steed most uncourteously from the com- 
fortable quarters in which he was soundly sleeping, 



90 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

dreaming of mountains of corn and oats, and whole 

valleys of timothy and clover. 

56 It was the very witching time of night, that 
Ichabod, heavy hearted and crestfallen, pursued his 
travel homewards along the sides of the lofty hills 
which rise above Tarr5^town, and which he had trav- 
ersed so cheerily in the afternoon. The hour was as 
dismal as himself. Far below him the Tappan Zee 
spread its dusky and indistinct waste of waters, with 
here and there the tall mast of a sloop riding quietly 
at anchor under the land. In the dead hush of mid- 
night he could even hear the barking of the watch- 
dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson, but it 
was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of his 
distance from this faithful companion of man. Now 
and then, too, the long-dravv^n crowing of a cock, 
accidently awakened, would sound far, far off, from 
some farmhouse away among the hills; but it was like 
a dreaming sound in his ear. No signs of life oc- 
curred near him, but occasionally the melancholy 
chirp of a cricket, or perhaps the guttural twang of a 
bull-frog from a neighboring marsh, as if sleeping 
uncomfortably, and turning suddenly in his bed. 

57 All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had 
heard in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his 
recollection. The night grew darker and darker. 
The stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driv- 
ing clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He 
had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, more- 
over, approaching the very place where many of the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 9 1 

scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the 
center of the road stood an enormous tuhp-tree, 
which towered hke a giant above all the other trees 
of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. 
Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to 
form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost 
to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was 
connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate 
Andre who had been taken prisoner hard by, and was 
universally knov/n by the name of Major Andre's 
tree. The common people regarded it with a mix- 
ture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympa- 
thy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and 
partly from the tales of strange sights and doleful 
lamentations told concerning it. 

58 As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he 
began to whistle. He thought his whistle was an- 
swered: it was but a blast sweeping sharply through 
the dry branches. As he approached a little nearer, 
he thought he saw something white hanging in the 
midst of the tree. He paused, and ceased whistling, 
but, on looking more narrowly, perceived that it was 
a place where the tree had been scathed by lightning, 
and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he heard a 
groan. His teeth chattered, and his knees smote 
against the saddle. It v/as but the rubbing of one 
huge bough upon another, as they were swayed about 
by the breeze. He passed the tree in safety, but new 
perils lay before him. 

59 About two hundred yards from the tree a small 



92 ^ THE SKETCH BOOK. 

brook crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and 
thickly wooded glen, known by the name of Wiley's 
Swamp. A few rough logs laid side by side served 
for a bridge over this stream. On that side of the 
road where the brook entered the wood, a group of 
oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with wild grape 
vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To pass 
this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this 
identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was cap- 
tured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and 
vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who sur- 
prised him. This has ever since been considered a 
haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the 
schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark. 

60 As he approached the stream his heart began to 
thump. He summoned up, however, all his resolu- 
tion, gave his horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, 
and attempted to dash briskly across the bridge; but, 
instead of starting forward, the perverse old animal 
made a lateral movement, and ran broadside against 
the fence. Ichabod, w^hose fears increased with the 
delay, jerked the reins on the other side, and kicked 
lustily with the contrary foot. It was all in vain. 
His steed started, it is true, but it was only to plunge 
to the opposite side of the road into a thicket of 
brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster now 
bestowed both whip and heel upon the starvling ribs 
of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling and 
snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge with 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 93 

a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plash}^ tramp 
by the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of 
Ichabod. In the dark shadow of the grove, on the 
margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, mis- 
shapen, black, and towering. It stirred not, but 
seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic 
monster ready to spring upon the traveler. 

61 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon 
his head with terror. What v/as to be done } To 
turn and fly was now too late; and, besides, what 
chance w^as there of escaping ghost or goblin, if such 
it was, which could ride upon the wings of the wind 1 
Summoning up, therefore, a show of courage, he 
demanded in stammering accents, "Who are you.?" 
He received no reply. He repeated his demand in a 
still more agitated voice. Still there was no answer. 
Once more he cudgeled the sides of the inflexible Gun- 
powder, and shutting his eyes, broke forth with 
involuntary fervor into a psalm tune. Just then the 
shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, 
with a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the 
middle of the road. Though the night was dark and 
dismal, yet the form of the unknown might now in 
some degree be ascertained. He appeared to be a 
horseman of large dimensions, and mounted on a 
black horse of powerful frame. He made no offer of 
molestation or sociability, but kept aloof on one side 
of the road, jogging along on the blind side of old 



94 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

Gunpowder, who had now got over his fright and 
waywardness. 

62 Ichabod, who had no reUsh for this strange mid- 
night companion, and bethought himself of the adven- 
ture of Brom Bones with the Galloping Hessian, now 
quickened his steed, in hopes of leaving him behind. 
The stranger, however, quickened his horse to an 
equal pace. Ichabod pulled up, and fell into a walk, 
thinking to lag behind; the other did the same. His 
heart began to sink within him. He endeavored to 
resume his psalm tune; but his parched tongue clove 
to the roof of his mouth, and he could not utter a 
stave. There was something in the moody and 
dogged silence of this pertinacious companion that 
was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveler in relief 
against the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a 
cloak, Ichabod was horror-struck on perceiving that 
he vv^as headless; but his horror was still more increased 
on observing that the head, which should have rested 
on his shoulders, w^as carried before him on the pom- 
mel of his saddle. His terror rose to desperation. 
He rained a shower of kicks and blows upon Gun- 
powder, hoping, by a sudden movement, to give his 
companion the slip; but the specter started full jump 
with him. Av/ay then they dashed, through thick 
and thin; stones flying, and sparks flashing, at every 
bound. Ichabod 's flimsy garments fluttered ir^ the 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 95 

air, as he stretched his long, lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

63 They had now reached the road which turns off 
to Sleepy Hollow; but Gunpowder, who seemed pos- 
sessed with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made 
an opposite turn, and plunged headlong downhill to 
the left. This road runs through a sandy hollow, 
shaded by trees for about a quarter of a mile, where 
it crosses the bridge famous in gobHn story; and just 
beyond swells the green knoll on which stands the 
whitewashed church. 

64 As yet the panic of the steed had given his 
unskillful rider an apparent advantage in the chase; 
but, just as he had got halfway through the hollow, the 
girths of the saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping 
from under him. He seized it by the pommel, and 
endeavored to hold it firm, but in vain; and had just 
time to save himself by clasping old Gunpowder around 
the neck, when the saddle fell to the earth, and he 
heard it trampled underfoot by his pursuer. For a 
moment the terror of Hans Van Ripper's wrath passed 
across his mind, for it was his Sunday saddle; but this 
was no time for petty fears. The goblin was hard on 
his haunches; and (unskillful rider that he was) he 
had much ado to maintain his seat, sometimes slipping 
on one side, sometimes on another, and sometimes 
jolted on the high ridge of his horse's backbone with 
a violence that he verily feared would cleave him 
asunder. 



gO THE SKETCH BOOK. 

65 An opening in the trees now cheered him with 
the hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The 
wavering reflection of a silver star in the bosom of 
the brook told him that he was not mistaken. He 
saw the walls of the church dimly glaring under the 
trees beyond. He recollected the place where Brom 
Bones's ghostly competitor had disappeared. ''If I 
can but reach that bridge, ' ' thought Ichabod, ' ' I am 
safe." Just then he heard the black steed panting 
and blowing close behind him. He even fancied that 
he felt his hot breath. Another convulsive kick in 
the ribs, and old Gunpowder sprang upon the bridge; 
he thundered over the resounding planks; he gained 
the opposite side; and now Ichabod cast a look behind 
to see if his pursuer should vanish, according to rule, 
in a flash of fire and^ brimstone. Just then he saw 
the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the very act of 
hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavored to dodge 
the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered his 
cranium with a tremendous crash. He was tumbled 
headlong into the dust; and Gunpowder, the black 
steed, and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

66 The next morning the old horse was found with- 
out his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, 
soberly cropping the grass at his master's gate. Icha- 
bod did not make his appearance at breakfast. Dinner- 
hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at 
the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of 
the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 97 

now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of 
poor Ichabod and his saddle. An inquiry was set on 
foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon 
his traces. In one part of the road leading to the 
church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt. The 
tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, and 
evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the 
brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found 
the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it 
a shattered pumpkin. 

67 The brook was searched, but the body of the 
schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van 
Ripper, as executor of his estate, examined the bundle 
which contained all his worldly effects. They con- 
sisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; 
a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of 
corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm 
tunes, full of dogs' ears; and a broken pitchpipe. As 
to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they 
belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather's 
*' History of Witchcraft," a '* New England Almanac," 
and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which 
last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted 
by several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses 
in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic 
books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned 
to the flames by Hans Van Ripper, who from that 
time forward determined to send his children no more 



98 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

to school, observing that he never knev;^ any good 
come of this same reading and writing. Whatever 
money the schoolmaster possessed, and he had re- 
ceived his quarter's pay but a day or two before, he 
must have had about his person at the time of his 
disappearance. 

68 The mysterious event caused much speculation 
at the church on the following Sunday. Knots of 
gazers and gossips were collected in the churchyard, 
at the bridge, and at the spot where the hat and 
pumpkin had been found. The stories of Brouwer, of 
Bones, and a whole budget of others, were called to 
mind; and when they had diligently considered them 
all, and compared them with the symptoms of the 
present case, they shook their heads, and came to the 
conclusion that Ichabod had been carried off by 
the Galloping Hessian. As he was a bachelor, and in 
nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head any more 
about him. The school was removed to a different 
quarter of the hollow, and another pedagogue reigned 
in his stead. 

69 It is true, an old farmer who had been down to 
New York on a visit several years after, and from whom 
this account of the ghostly adventure was received, 
brought home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was 
still alive; that he had left the neighborhood, partly 
through fear of the gobhn and Hans Van Ripper, and 
partly in mortification at having been suddenly dis- 
missed by the heiress; that he had changed his quar- 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 99 

ters to a distant part of the country, had kept school 
and studied law at the same time, had been admitted 
to the bar, turned politician, electioneered, written 
for the newspapers, and finally had been made a 
justice of the Ten Pound Court. Brom Bones, too, 
who shortly after his rival's disappearance conducted 
the blooming Katrina in triumph to the altar, was 
observed to look exceedingly knowing whenever the 
story of Ichabod was related, and always burst into a 
hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin, which 
led some to suspect that he knew more about the 
matter than he chose to tell. 

70 The old country wives, however, who are the 
best judges of these matters, maintain to this day 
that Ichabod was spirited away by supernatural 
means; and it is a favorite story often told about the 
neighborhood around the winter evening fire. The 
bridge became more than ever an object of supersti- 
tious awe; and that may be the reason why the road 
has been altered of late years, so as to approach the 
church by the border of the mill-pond. The school- 
house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and was 
reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfor- 
tunate pedagogue; and the plow-boy, loitering home- 
ward of a still summer evening, has often fancied his 
voice at a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm tune 
among the tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



I oo THE SKETCH B OK, 

POSTSCRIPT. 

[Found in the handwriting of Mr. Knickerbocker. '\ 
The preceding tale is given almost in the precise words in which 
I heard it related at a corporation meeting of the ancient city of the 
Manhattoes,^ at which were present many of its sagest and most illus- 
trious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby, gentlemanly 
old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly humorous face; and 
one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, he made such efforts to be 
entertaining. When his story was concluded, there was much laughter 
and approbation, particularly from two or three deputy aldermen, who 
had been asleep the grekter part of the time. There was, however, 
one tall, dry-looking old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who 
maintained a grave and rather severe face throughout; now and then 
folding his arms, inclining his head, and looking down upon the floor, 
as if turning a doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, 
who never laugh but upon good grounds, when they have reason and 
the law on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow of 
his chair, and, sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight but 
exceedingly sage motion of the head and contraction of the brow, what 
was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove. 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, as 
a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass slowly 
to the table, observed that the story was intended most logically to 
prove, — 

"That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and pleas- 
ures, provided we will but take a joke as we find it. 

"That therefore he that runs races with goblin troopers is likely to 
have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 
Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the State." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 

1 Manhattan, New York City. 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 10 1 

with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed that 
all this was very v^ell, but still he thought the story a little on 
the extravagant: thei-e were one or two points on which he had his 
doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't 
believe one half of it myself." 

D. K. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 



1 On one of those sober and rather melancholy 
days in the latter part of autumn, when the shadows 
of morning and evening almost mingle together, and 
throw a gloom over the decline of the year, I passed 
several hours in rambling about Westminster Abbey. 
There was something congenial to the season in the 
mournful magnificence of the old pile; and, as I 
passed its threshold, it seemed like stepping back 
into the regions of antiquity, and losing myself among 
the shades of former ages. 

2 I entered from the inner court of Westminster 
school,^ through a long, low, vaulted passage, that 
had an almost subterranean look, being dimly lighted 
in one part by circular perforations in the massive 
walls. Through this dark avenue I had a distant 
view of the cloisters,^ with the figure of an old 
verger^ in his black gown, moving along their shad- 
owy vaults, and seeming like a specter from one of 
the neighboring tombs. The approach to the Abbey 
through these gloomy monastic remains prepares the 



1 This school was in existence in 1540, established by charter of Henry VHI. 

2 Covered passages extending around the inner walls of monasteries and used for 
lectures and as a place for recreation for the monks. 

3 Old French, vergier: Latin, virga ( " a rod " ). A pew opener and attendant in 
a church. 

102 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. IO3 

mind for its solemn contemplation. The cloister 
still retains something of the quiet and seclusion 
of former days. The gray walls are discolored by 
damps, and crumbling with age; a coat of hoary moss 
has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural monu- 
ments, and obscured the death's heads and other 
funeral emblems; the sharp touches of the chisel are 
gone from the rich tracery of the arches; the roses 
which adorned the keystones have lost their leafy 
beauty; everything bears marks of the gradual dilapi- 
dations of time, which yet has something touching 
and pleasing in its very decay. 

3 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal 
ray into the square of the cloisters, beaming upon a 
scanty plot of grass in the center, and lighting up an 
angle of the vaulted passage with a kind of dusty 
splendor. From between the arcades the eye glanced 
up to a bit of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld 
the sun-gilt pinnacles of the Abbey towering into the 
azure heaven. 

4 As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplat- 
ing this mingled picture of glory and decay, and some- 
times endeavoring to decipher the inscriptions on the 
tombstones, which formed the pavement beneath my 
feet, my eye was attracted to three figures, rudely 
carved in relief, but nearly worn away by the foot- 
steps of many generations. They were the efBgies of 
three of the early abbots. The epitaphs were en- 
tirely effaced. The names alone remained, having, 



I04 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

no doubt, been renewed in later times, — Vitalis 
(Abbas, 1082), and Gislebertus Crispinus (Abbas, 
1 1 14), and Laurentius (Abbas, 11 76). I remained 
some little while, musing over these casual relics of 
antiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore 
of time, telling no tale but that such beings had been 
and had perished; teaching no moral but the futility 
of that pride which hopes still to exact homage in its 
ashes, and to live in an inscription. A little longer, 
and even these faint records will be obHterated, and 
the monument will cease to be a memorial. Whilst 
I was yet looking down upon these gravestones, I was 
roused by the sound of the Abbey clock, reverberating 
from buttress to buttress, and echoing among the 
cloisters. It is almost startling to hear this warning 
of departed time sounding among the tombs, and 
telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a billow, has 
rolled us onward toward the grave. 

5 I pursued my walk to an arched door opening to 
the interior of the Abbey. On entering here, the 
magnitude of the building breaks fully upon the 
mind, contrasted with the vaults of the cloisters. 
The eye gazes with wonder at clustered columns of 
gigantic dimensions, with arches springing from them 
to such an amazing height, and man wandering about 
their bases, shrunk into insignificance in comparison 
with his own handiwork. The spaciousness and 
gloom of this vast edifice produce a profound and 
mysterious awe. We step cautiously and softly 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 05 

about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence 
of the tomb; while every footfall whispers along the 
walls, and chatters among the sepulchers, making us 
more sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

6 It seems as if the awful nature of the place 
presses down upon the soul, and hushes the beholder 
into noiseless reverence. We feel that we are sur- 
rounded by the congregated bones of the great men 
of past times, who have filled history with their 
deeds, and the earth with their renown. And yet it 
almost provokes a smile at the vanity of human am- 
bition, to see how they are crowded together and 
jostled in the dust; what parsimony is observed in 
doHng out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little 
portion of earth, to those whom, when alive, king- 
doms could not satisfy; and how many shapes and 
forms and artifices are devised to catch the casual 
notice of the passenger, and save from forgetfulness 
for a few short years a name which once aspired to 
occupy ages of the world's thought and admiration. 

7 I passed some time in Poet's Corner^ which 
occupies an end of one of the transepts or cross aisles 
of the Abbey. The monuments are generally simple, 
for the Hves of literary men afford no striking themes 
for the sculptor. Shakespeare^ and Addison^ have 



1 Said to have derived its name from the fact that the poet Chaucer, who died Oct. 
25, 1400, was the first to be buried in Poet's Corner, through the royal favor of Henry 
IV. 

2 The remains of Shakespeare (1564-1616) were never moved from Stratford. 

3 Addison (1672-1719) is buried in the chapel of Henry VH. 



I06 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

statues erected to their memories; but the greater 
part have busts, medallions, and sometimes mere in- 
scriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of these 
memorials, I have always observed that the visitors 
to the Abbey remain longest about them. A kinder 
and fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity 
or vague admiration with which they gaze on the 
splendid monuments of the great and the heroic. 
They linger about these as about the tombs of friends 
and companions; for, indeed, there is something of 
companionship between the author and the reader. 
Other men are known to posterity only through the 
medium of history, which is continually grtDwing faint 
and obscure; but the intercourse between the author 
and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and immediate. 
He has lived for them more than for himself; he has 
sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut himself 
up from the delights of social life, that he might the 
more intimately commune with distant minds and 
distant ages. Well may the world cherish his re- 
nown; for it has been purchased, not by deeds of 
violence and blood, but by the diligent dispensation 
of pleasure. Well may posterity be grateful to his 
memory; for he has left it an inheritance, not pi 
empty names and sounding actions, but whole treas- 
ures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and golden 
veins of language. 

8 From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll toward 
that part of the Abbey which contains the sepulchers 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I07 

of the kings. I wandered among what once were 
chapels, but which are now occupied by the tombs 
and monuments of the great. At every turn I met 
with some illustrious name, or the cognizance of 
some powerful house renowned in history. As the 
eye darts into these dusky chambers of death, it 
catches glimpses of quaint effigies, — some kneeling 
in niches, as if in devotion; others stretched upon 
the tombs, with hands piously pressed together; 
warriors in armor, as if reposing after battle; prelates 
with crosiers and miters; and nobles in robes and 
coronets, lying, as it were, in state. In glancing 
over this scene, so strangely populous, yet where 
every form is so strangely still and silent, it seems 
almost as if we were treading a mansion of that 
fabled city, where every being had been suddenly 
transmuted into stone. 

9 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay 
the effigy of a knight in complete armor. A large 
buckler was on one arm; the hands were pressed 
together in supplication upon the breast; the face was 
almost covered by the morion; the legs were crossed, 
in token of the warrior's having been engaged in the 
holy war. It was the tomb of a crusader, — of one 
of those military enthusiasts who so strangely mingled 
religion and romance, and whose exploits form the 
connecting link between fact and fiction, between the 
history and the fairy tale. There is something ex- 
tremely picturesque in the tombs of these adventurers, 



1 08 THE SKETCH B OK. 

decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings and 

Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated 
chapels in which they are generally found; and in 
considering them, the imagination is apt to kindle 
with the legendary associations, the romantic fictions, 
the chivalrous pomp and pageantry, which poetry has 
spread over the wars for the sepulcher of Christ. 
They are the relics of times utterly gone by, of beings 
passed from recollection, of customs and manners 
with which ours have no affinity. They are like ob- 
jects from some strange and distant land, of which we 
have no certain knowledge, and about which all our 
conceptions are vague and visionary. There is some- 
thing extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on 
Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or 
in the supplication of the dying hour. They have 
an effect infinitely more impressive on my feehngs 
than the fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, 
and allegorical groups, which abound on modern 
monuments. I have been struck, also, with the 
superiority of many of the old sepulchral inscriptions. 
There was a noble way, in former times, of saying 
things simply, and yet saying them proudly; and I do 
not know an epitaph that breathes a loftier conscious- 
ness of family worth and honorable lineage than one 
which affirms, of a noble house, that **all the broth- 
ers were brave, and all the sisters virtuous." 

10 In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands 
a monument which is among the most renowned 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 109 

achievements of modern art, but which to me appears 
horrible rather than subhme. It is the tomb of Mrs. 
Nightingale, by Roubiliac. The bottom of the monu- 
ment is represented as throwing open its marble 
doors, and a sheeted skeleton is starting forth. The 
shrowd is falling from his fleshless frame as he 
launches his dart at his victim. She is sinking into 
her affrighted husband's arms, who strives, with vain 
and frantic effort, to avert the blow. The whole is 
executed with terrible truth and spirit: we almost 
fancy we hear the gibbering yell of triumph bursting 
from the distended jaws of the specter. But why 
should we thus seek to clothe death with unnecessary 
terrors, and to spread horrors round the tomb of 
those we love.^ The grave should be surrounded by 
everything that might inspire tenderness and venera- 
tion for the dead, or that might win the living to vir- 
tue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, but 
of sorrow and meditation. 

11 While vv^andering about these gloomy vaults and 
silent aisles, studying the records of the dead, the 
sound of busy existence from without occasionally 
reaches the ear, — the rumbling of the passing equi- 
page, the murmur of the multitude, or perhaps the 
light laugh of pleasure. The contrast is striking with 
the deathlike repose around; and it has a strange 
effect upon the feelings, thus to hear the surges of 
active life hurrying along, and beating against the 
very walls of the sepulcher. 



I lO THE SKETCH BOOK. 

12 I continued in this way to move from tomb to 
tomb, and from chapel to chapel. The day was 
gradually wearing away; the distant tread of loiterers 
about the Abbey grew less and less frequent; the 
sweet-tongued bell was summoning to evening prayer; 
and I saw at a distance the choristers, in their white 
surplices, crossing the aisle and entering the choir. 
I stood before the entrance to Henry VII's Chapel. 
A flight of steps leads up to it, through a deep and 
gloomy but magnificent arch. Great gates of brass, 
richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon their 
hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 
common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepul- 
chers. 

13 On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp 
of architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured 
detail. The very walls are wrought into universal 
ornament, incrusted with tracery, and scooped into 
niches crowded with the statues of saints and mar- 
tyrs. Stone seems, by the cunning labor of the 
chisel, to have been robbed of its weight and density, 
suspended aloft as if by magic, and the fretted roof 
achieved with the wonderful minuteness and airy 
security of a cobweb. 

14 Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls 
of the Knights of the Bath ^ richly carved of oak, 



iThis Order of the Knights of the Bath originated, in 1399, at Henry IV's corona- 
tion. In the earlier coronations it had been the practice of the sovereigns to create 
a number of knights before they started on their procession from the Tower. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. I 1 1 

though with the grotesque decorations of Gothic 
architecture. On the pinnacles of the stalls are 
affixed the helmets and crests of the knights, with 
their scarfs and swords; and above them are sus- 
pended their banners, emblazoned with armorial 
bearings, and contrasting the splendor of gold and 
purple and crimson with the cold, gray fretwork of 
the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulcher of its founder, — his effigy, with 
that of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, 
and the whole surrounded by a superbly wrought 
brazen railing. 

15 There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence; 
this strange mixture of tombs and trophies, these 
emblems of living and aspiring ambition, close beside 
mementos which show the dust and oblivion in which 
all must sooner or later terminate. Nothing im- 
presses the mind with a deeper feehng of loneliness, 
than to tread the silent and deserted scene of former 
throng and pageant. On looking round on the vacant 
stalls of the knights and their esquires, and on the 
rows of dusty, but gorgeous banner that were once 
borne before them, my imagination conjured up the 
scene when this hall was bright with the valor and 
beauty of the land, glittering wdth the splendor of 
jeweled rank and military array, alive with the tread 
of many feet and the hum of an admiring multitude. 
All had passed away: the silence of death had set- 
tled again upon the place, interrupted only by the 



1 1 2 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

casual chirping- of birds, which had found their way 
into the chapel, and built their nests among its friezes 
and pendants, — sure signs of solitariness and de- 
sertion. 

i6 When I read the names inscribed on the ban- 
ners, they were those of men scattered far and wide 
about the world, some tossing upon distant seas, 
some under arms in distant lands, some mingling 
in the busy intrigues of courts and cabinets, all seek- 
ing to deserve one more distinction in this man- 
sion of shadowy honors, — the melancholy reward of 
a monument. 

17 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel 
present a touching instance of the equality of the 
grave, which brings down the oppressor to a level 
with the oppressed, and mingles the dust of the bit- 
terest enemies together. In one is the sepulcher of 
the haughty Elizabeth:^ in the other is that of her 
victim, the lovely and unfortunate Mary.^ Not an 
hour in the day but some ejaculation of pity is uttered 
over the fate of the latter, mingled with indignation 
at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth 's sepulcher 
continually echo with the sighs of sympathy heaved 
at the grave of her arrival. 

18 A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle 

1 Elizabeth (born in 1653) reigned as Queen of England from 1558 to 1603, 
when she died. She was the last of the Tudors, and was called " the lian-hearted 
Elizabeth." 

2 Mary Queen of Scots, daughter of James V of Scotland, was born in 1542. She 
was charged by Queen Elizabeth with having entered into a conspiracy against the 
life of the latter, and was ordered to be executed. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 1 3 

where Mary lies buried. The Ught struggles dimly 
through windows darkened by dust. The greater 
part of the place is in deep shadow, and the walls are 
stained and tinted by time and weather. A marble 
figure of Mary is stretched upon the tomb, round 
which is an iron raihng, much corroded, bearing her 
national emblem, — the thistle.^ I was weary with 
wandering, and sat down to rest myself by the monu- 
ment, revolving in my mind the checkered and disas- 
trous story of poor Mary. 

19 The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from 
the Abbey. I could only hear now and then the dis- 
tant voice of the priest repeating the evening service, 
and the faint responses of the choir. These paused 
for a time, and all was hushed. The stillness, the 
desertion and obscurity, that were gradually prevail- 
ing around gave a deeper and more solemn interest to 
the place: — 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers. 

No careful father's counsel, — nothing's heard, 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust and an endless darkness, 

20 Suddenly the notes of the deep-laboring organ 
burst upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled 
intensity, and rolUng, as it were, huge billows of 
sound. How well do their volume and grandeur 



1 The thistle, which gives name to the Scottish order, is also a heraldic bearing 
in that country. 



1 14 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

accord with this mighty building! With what pomp 
do they swell through its vast vaults, and breathe 
their awful harmony through these caves of death, 
and make the silent sepulcher vocal! And now they 
rise in triumph and acclamation, heaving higher and 
higher their accordant notes, and piling sound on 
sound. And now they pause, and the soft voices of 
the choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; 
they soar aloft and warble along the roof, and 
seem to play about these lofty vaults like the 
pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves 
its thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and 
rolling it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn 
cadences! Vv^hat solemn sweeping concords! It 
grows more and more dense and powerful; it fills the 
vast pile, and seems to jar the very walls; the ear is 
stunned; the senses are overwhelmed. And now it 
is winding up in full jubilee. It is rising from the 
earth to heaven. The very soul seems rapt away 
and floated upward on this swelling tide of har- 
mony. 

21 I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie 
which a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire. 
The shadows of evening were gradually thickening 
around me, the monuments began to cast deeper and 
deeper gloom, and the distant clock again gave token 
of the slowly waning day. 

22 I rose, and prepared to leave the Abbey. As I 
descended the flight of steps which lead into the body 



WESTMINSTER ABBE V I I 5 

of the building, my eye was caught by the shrine^ of 
Edward the Confessor; and I ascended the small stair- 
case that conducts to it, to take from thence a general 
survey of this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is 
elevated upon a kind of platform, and close around 
it are the sepulchers of various kings and queens. 
From this eminence the eye looks down between 
pillars and funeral trophies to the chapels and cham- 
bers below, crowded with tombs, where warriors, prel- 
ates, courtiers, and statesmen He moldering in their 
' ' beds of darkness. " Close to me stood the great chair 
of coronation, rudely carved of oak, in the barbarous 
taste of a remote and Gothic age. The scene seemed 
almost as if contrived, with theatrical artifice, to pro- 
duce an effect upon the beholder. Here was a type of 
the beginning and the end of human pomp and power: 
here it was literally but a step from the throne to the 
sepulcher. Would not one think that these incon- 
gruous mementos had been gathered together as a 
lesson to human greatness ? — to show it, even in the 
moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and 
dishonor to which it must soon arrive; how soon that 
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and 
it must lie down in the dust and disgrace of the 
tomb, and be trampled upon by the feet of the mean- 
est of the multitude; for, strange to tell, even the 
grave is here no longer a sanctuary. There is a shock- 

1 Erected by Henry HI on the canonizing of Edward, king of England, by Pope 
Alexander HI, who caused his name to be placed in the catalogue of saints. 



1 16 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ing levity in some natures, which leads them to sport 
\vith awful and hallowed things; and there are base 
minds, which delight to revenge on the illustrious 
dead the abject homage and groveling servility which 
they pay to the living. The coffin of Edward the 
Confessor has been broken open, and his remains 
despoiled of their funeral ornaments; the scepter has 
been stolen from the hand of the imperious Elizabeth; 
and the effigy of Henry V lies headless/ Not a royal 
monument but bears some proof how false and fugi- 
tive is the homage of mankind. Some are plundered, 
some mutilated, some covered with ribaldry and insult, 
all more or less outraged and dishonored. 

23 The last beams of day were now faintly stream- 
ing through the painted windows in the high vaults 
above me. The lower parts of the Abbey were 
already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The 
chapels and aisles grew darker and darker. The effi- 
gies of the kings faded into shadows; the marble 
figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in 
the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through 
the aisles Uke the cold breath of the grave; and even 
the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the Poet's 
Corner, had something strange and dreary in its sound. 
I slowly retraced my morning's walk; and as I passed 
out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing 
with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole build- 
ing with echoes. 



iThe effigy is said to have originally been plated with silver, and the head to have 
been of solid silver. 



WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 1 1 7 

24 I endeavored to form some arrangement in my 
mind of the objects I had been contemplating, but 
found they were already falhng into indistinctness and 
confusion. Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all 
become confounded in my recollection, though I had 
scarcely taken my foot from off the threshold. What, 
thought I, is this vast assemblage of sepulchers, but 
a treasury of humiliation, — a huge pile of reiterated 
homilies on the emptiness of renown and the certainty 
of oblivion.? It is, indeed, the empire of Death; his 
great, shadowy palace, where he sits in state, mocking 
at the rehcs of human glory, and spreading dust and 
forgetfulness on the monuments of princes. How 
idle a boast, after all, is the immortality of a name ! 
Time is ever silently turning over his pages. We are 
too much engrossed by the story of the present to 
think of the characters and anecdotes that gave inter- 
est to the past; and each age is a volume thrown aside 
to be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes 
the hero of yesterday out of our recollection, and 
will, in turn, be supplanted by his successor of to- 
morrow, ''Our fathers," says Sir Thomas Brown, ^ 
''find their graves in our short memories, and sadly 
tell us how we may be buried in our survivors." 
History fades into fable, fact becomes clouded with 
doubt and controversy, the inscription molders from 
the tablet, the statue falls from the pedestal. Columns, 
arches, pyramids — what are they but heaps of sand, 



lA distinguished English writer, born in London in 1605. He published a work, 
'Religio Medici," which was a success, and he became celebrated as a man of letters. 



1 18 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

and their epitaphs but characters written in the dust ? 
What is the security of the tomb, or the perpetuity 
of an embalmment ? The remains of Alexander the 
Great ^ have been scattered to the wind, and his empty 
sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a museum. 
' ' The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses or time 
hath spared, avarice now consumeth. Mizraim cures 
wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." 

25 What, then, is to insure this pile which now 
towers above me from sharing the fate of mightier 
mausoleums .'' The time must come when its gilded 
vaults, which now spring so loftily, shall lie in rubbish 
beneath the feet; when, instead of the sound of 
melody and praise, the wind shall whistle through the 
broken arches, and the owl hoot from the shattered 
tower; whe-n the garish sunbeam shall break into these 
gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy twine round 
the fallen column, and the fox-glove hang its blossoms 
about the nameless urn as if in mockery of the dead. 
Thus man passes away; his name perishes from record 
and recollection; his history is as a tale that is told; 
and his very monument becomes a ruin. 



1 Alexander HI (commonly called "the Great") was born at Pella, 356 b. C. He 
was a great warrior, and successful in all his exploits conquering all the world. 



THE STAGECOACH 



" Omne bene 

Sine poena 

Tempus est ludendi 

Venit hora 

Absque mora 

Libros deponendi." ^ 

— Old Holiday School Song. 

1 In the preceding paper I have made some general 
observations on the Christmas festivities of England, 
and am tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes 
of a Christmas passed in the country; in perusing 
which I would most courteously invite my reader to 
lay aside the austerity of wisdom, and to put on that 
genuine holiday spirit which is tolerant of folly, and 
anxious only for amusement. 

2 In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I 
rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches 
on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was 
crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, 
by their talk, seemed principally bound to the man- 
sions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas 



1 Free translation : — 

" There 's a time for hard playing. 
With nothing to fear. 
Drop books without delaying — 
The hour is here." 

119 



1 20 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game, 
and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hmig 
dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, 
presents from distant friends for the impending feast. 
I had three fine rosy-cheeked schoolboys for my fellow- 
passengers inside, full of the buxom, health and manly 
spirit w^hich I have observed in the children of this 
country. They were returning home for the holidays 
in high glee, and promising themselves a world of en- 
jo3^ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans 
of pleasure of the little rogues, and the impracticable 
feats they were to perform during their six-weeks' 
emancipation from the abhorred thraldom of book, 
birch, and pedagogue. They were full of the antici- 
pations of the meeting with the family and household, 
down to the very cat and dog, and of the joy they 
were to give their little sisters by the presents with 
which their pockets were crammed; but the meeting 
to which they seemed to look forward with the great- 
est impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be 
a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more 
virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus.^ 
How he could trot! How he could run! And then 
such leaps as he would take! There was not a hedge 
in the whole country that he could not clear. 

3 They were under the particular guardianship of 
the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity 
presented, they addressed a host of questions, and 

1 The horse of Alexander the Great. 



THE STAGECOACH. 121 

pronounced him one of the best fellows in the whole 
world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than 
ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, 
who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large 
bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the buttonhole 
of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty 
care and business, but he is particularly so during this 
season, having so many covnnissions to execute in 
consequence of the great interchange of presents. 
And here, perhaps, it may not be unacceptable to my 
untraveled readers to have a sketch that may serve as 
general representation of this very numerous and im- 
portant class of fimctionarics, who have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, 
and prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, 
wherever an English stagecoach-man may be seen, he 
can not be mistaken for one of any other craft or 
mystery. 

4 He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously 
mottled with red, as if the blood had been forced 
by hard feeding into every vessel of the skin. He is 
swelled into jolly dimensions by frequent potations of 
malt liquors; and his bulk is still further increased by 
a multiplicity of coats, in which he is buried hke a 
cauliflower, the upper one reaching to his heels. He 
wears a broad-brimmicd, low-crowned hat; a huge roll 
of colored handkerchief about his neck, knowingly 
knotted, and tucked in at the bosom; and has in sum- 
mer time a large bouquet of flowers in his buttonhole. 



122 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

— the present, most probably, of some enamored 
country lass. His waistcoat is commonly of some 
bright color, striped, and his small-clothes extend far 
below the knees, to meet a pair of jockey boots which 
reach about halfway up his legs. 

5 All this costume is maintained with much pre- 
cision. He has a pride in having his clothes of excel- 
lent materials; and, notwithstanding the seeming 
grossness of his appearance, there is still discernible 
that neatness and propriety of person which is almost 
inherent in an Englishman. He enjoys great conse- 
quence and consideration along the road; has frequent 
conferences with the village housewives, who look 
upon him as a man of great trust and dependence; 
and he seems to have a good understanding with 
every bright-eyed country lass. The moment he 
arrives where the horses are to be changed, he 
throws down the reins with something of an air, 
and abandons the cattle to the care of the hostler, his 
duty being merely to drive them from one stage to 
another. When off the box, his hands are thrust in 
the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the 
inn yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. 
Here he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng 
of hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those name- 
less hangers-on that infest inns and taverns, and run 
errands, and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege 
of battening on the drippings of the kitchen and the 
leakage of the tap-room. These all look up to him as 



THE STA GECOA CH. I 2 3 

to an oracle; treasure up his cant phrases; echo his 
opinions about horses and other topics of jockey lore; 
and, above all, endeavor to imitate his air and carriage. 
Every ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts 
his hands in his pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, 
and is an embryo coachey. 

6 Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 
that reigned in my own mind that I fancied I saw 
a cheerfulness in every countenance throughout the 
journey. A stagecoach, however, carries animation 
always with it, and puts the world in motion as it 
whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance of 
a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten 
forth to meet friends; some, with bundles and band- 
boxes, to secure places, and, in the hurry of the 
moment, can hardly take leave of the group that 
accompanies them. In the meantime the coachman 
has a world of small commissions to execute: some- 
times he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes 
jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door 
of a public house; and sometimes, with knowing leer 
and words of sly import, hands to some half-blushing, 
half-laughing housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux^ 
from some rustic admirer. As the coach rattles 
through the village, everyone runs to the window, 
and you have glances on every side of fresh country 
faces and blooming, giggUng girls. At the corners are 
assembled juntos of village idlers and wise men, who 

1 French, billet (small letter) and doux (sweet) ; hence a love-letter. 



1 24 THE SKETCH B O OK. 

take their stations there for the important purpose of 
seeing company pass; but the sagest knot is generally 
at the blacksmith's, to whom the passing of the coach 
is an event fruitful of much speculation. The smith, 
with the horse's heel in his lap, pauses as the vehicle 
whirls by; the cyclops" round the anvil suspend their 
ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool; 
and the sooty specter, in brown paper cap, laboring 
at the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, 
and permits the asthmatic engine to heave a long- 
drawn sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke 
and sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

7 Perhaps the impending holiday might have given 
a more than usual animation to the country, for it 
seemed to me as if everybody was in good looks and 
good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of 
the table were in brisk circulation in the villages. 
The grocers', butchers', and fruiterers' ^shops were 
thronged with customers. The housewives were stir- 
ring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; 
and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red 
berries, began to appear at the windows. The scene 
brought to mind an old writer's account of Christmas 
preparations: "Now capons and hens, besides tur- 
keys, geese, and ducks, with beef and mutton — 
must all die; for in twelve days a multitude of people 
will not be fed with a little. Now plums and spice, 
sugar and honey, square it among pies and broth. 

2 See Webster. 



THE STA GECOA CH. I 2 5 

Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth 
must dance and sing to get them a heat, while the 
aged sit by the fire. The country maid leaves half 
her market, and must be sent again, if she forgets a 
pack of cards on Christmas eve. Great is the conten- 
tion of holly and ivy, whether master or dame wears 
the breeches. Dice and cards benefit the butler; and 
if the cook do not lack wit, he will sweetly lick his 
fingers." 

8 I was roused from this fit of luxurious medita- 
tation by a shout from my little traveling companions. 
They had been looking out of the coach windows for 
the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage 
as they approached home, and now there was a general 
burst of joy. ''There 's John, and there's old Carlo, 
and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, 
clapping their hands. 

9 At the end of a lane there was an old, sober- 
looking servant in livery, waiting for them. He was 
accompanied by a superannuated pointer, and by the 
redoubtable Bantam, — a little old rat of a pony, with 
a shaggy mane, and long, rusty tail, who stood dozing 
quietly by the roadside, little dreaming of the busthng 
times that awaited him. 

10 I was pleased to see the fondness with which 
the little fellows leaped about the steady old footman, 
and hugged the pointer, who wriggled his whole body 
for joy. But Bantam was the great object of inter- 
est. All wanted to mount at once ; and it was with 



126 THE STAGECOACH. 

some difficulty that John arranged that they should 
ride by turns, and the eldest should ride first. 

il Off they set at last, — one on the pony, with the 
dog bounding and barking before him; and the others 
holding John's hands, both talking at once, and over- 
powering him with questions about home, and with 
school anecdotes. I looked after them with a feeling 
in which I do not know whether pleasure or melan- 
choly predominated; for I was reminded of those 
days when, like them, I had neither known care nor 
sorrow, and a holiday was the summit of earthly 
felicity. We stopped a few moments afterward to 
water the horses, and, on resuming our route, a turn 
of the road brought us in sight of a neat country seat. 
I could just distinguish the forms of a lady and two 
3'Oung girls in the portico; and I saw my little com- 
rades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, trooping 
along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, 
but a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

12 In the evening we reached a village where I 
had determined to pass the night. As we drove into 
the great gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the 
light of a rousing kitchen fire beaming through a 
window. I entered, and admired, for the hundredth 
time, that picture of convenience, neatness, and 
broad, honest enjoyment, the kitchen of an English 
inn. It was of spacious dimensions, hung round with 
copper and tin vessels highly polished, and decorated 



THE S TA GE CO A CH. 1 2 7 

here and there with a Christmas green. Hams, 
tongues, and flitches of bacon were suspended from 
the ceihng; a smoke-jack made its ceaseless clanking 
beside the fireplace; and a clock ticked in one corner. 
A well-scoured deal table extended along one side of 
the kitchen, with a cold round of beef and other 
hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming tank- 
ards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travelers of 
inferior order were preparing to attack this stout 
repast, while others sat smoking and gossiping over 
their ale on two highbacked oaken settles^ beside the 
fire. Trim housemaids were hurrying backward and 
forward under the directions of a fresh busthng land- 
lady, but still seizing an occasional moment to ex- 
change a flippant word, and have a rallying laugh, 
with the group round the fire. The scene completely 
realized Poor Robin's ' humble idea of the comforts 
of mid-winter: — 

" Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair, 
A handsome hostess, merry host, 
A pot of ale, and now a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal fire: 
Are things this season doth require." 

13 I had not been long at the inn when a post- 
chaise drove up to the door. A young gentleman 
stepped out, and by the light of the lamps I caught 

1 Benches. 

2 "Poor Robin" was the pseudonym of Robert Herrick, the poet, under which 
he issued a series of almanacs (begun in 1661). 



128 ' THE SKETCH BOOK. 

a glimpse of a countenance which I thought I knew. 
I moved forward to get a nearer view, when his eye 
caught mine. I was not mistaken: it was Frank 
Bracebridge, a sprightly, good-humored young fellow, 
with whom I had once traveled on the Continent. 
Our meeting was extremely cordial, for the counte- 
nance of an old fellow-traveler always brings up the 
recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, odd adven- 
tures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these in 
a transient interview at an inn was impossible; and 
finding that I was not pressed for time, and was 
merely making a tour of observation, he insisted that 
I should give him a day or two at his father's country 
seat, to which he was going to pass the holidays, and 
which lay at a few miles' distance. '*It is better 
than eating a solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," 
said he, ' ' and I can assure you of a hearty welcome 
in something of the old-fashioned style." His rea- 
soning was cogent, and I must confess the preparation 
I had seen for universal festivity and social enjoyment 
had made me feel a Httle impatient of my lonehness. 
I closed, therefore, at once, with his invitation; the 
chaise drove up to the door, and in a few moments 
I was on my way to the family mansion of the 
Bracebridges. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND. 



Oh! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace. 

Domestic life in rural pleasures past! 

— Coivper. 

1 The stranger who would form a correct opinion 
of the Enghsh character, must not confine his obser- 
vations to the metropoHs. He must go forth into the 
country; he must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he 
must visit castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he 
must wander through parks and gardens; along hedges 
and green lanes; he must loiter about country churches; 
attend wakes and fairs, and other rural festivals; and 
cope with the people in all their conditions, and all 
their habits and humors. 

2 In some countries, the large cities absorb the 
wealth and fashion of the nation; they are the only 
fixed abodes of elegant and intelligent society, and 
the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish 
peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropo- 
lis is a mere gathering place, or general rendezvous, 
of the poUte classes, where they devote a small portion 
of the year to a hurry of gayety and dissipation, and 
having indulged this kind of carnival, return again to 
the apparently more congenial habits of rural fife. 
The various orders of society are therefore diffused 

q 129 



1 30 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

over the whole surface of the kingdom, and the most 
retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the different 
ranks. 

3 The EngHsh, in fact, are strongly gifted with the 
rural feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the 
beauties of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures 
and employments of the country. This passion seems 
inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, 
born and brought up among brick walls and bustling 
streets, enter with facility into rural habits, and evince 
a tact for rural occupation. The merchant has his 
snug retreat in the vicinity of the metropolis, where 
he often displays as much pride and zeal in the culti- 
vation of his flower-garden, and the maturing of his 
fruits, as he does in the conduct of his business, and 
the success of a commercial enterprise. Even those 
less fortunate individuals, who are doomed to pass 
their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to 
have something that shall remind them of the green 
aspect of nature. In the most dark and dingy quar- 
ters of the city, the drawing-room window resembles 
frequently a bank of flowers; every spot capable of 
vegetation has its grassplot and flower bed; and every 
square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste, 
and gleaming wath refreshing verdure. 

4 Those who see the Englishman only in town, are 
apt to form an unfavorable opinion of his social char- 
acter. He is either absorbed in business, or distracted 
by the thousand engagements that dissipate time. 



RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. 1 3 I 

thought, and feehng, in this huge metropoHs. He 
has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and 
abstraction. Wherever he happens to be, he is on 
the point of going somewhere else; at the moment he 
is talking on one subject, his mind is wandering to 
another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calcu- 
lating how he shall economize time so as to pay the 
other visits allotted to the morning. An immense 
metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient 
meetings, they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superfices of character — 
its rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed 
into a flow. 

5 It is in the countr}^ that the Englishman gives 
scope to his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly 
from the cold formalities and negative civilities of 
town; throws off his habits of shy reserve, and 
becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to 
collect round him all the conveniences and elegancies 
of polite life, and to banish its restraints. His country 
seat abounds with every requisite, either for studious 
retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. 
Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting 
implements of all kinds, are at hand. He puts no 
constraint, either upon his guests or himself, but, 
in the true spirit of hospitahty, provides the means of 
enjoyment and leaves everyone to partake according 
to his inclination. 



132 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

6 The taste of the EngUsh in the cultivation of 
land, and in what is called landscape gardening, is 
unrivaled. They have studied Nature intently, and 
discovered an exquisite sense of her beautiful forms 
and harmonious combinations. Those charms which, 
in other countries, she lavishes in wild solitudes, are 
here assembled round the haunts of domestic life. 
They seemed to have caught her coy and furtive 
graces, and spread them, like witchery, about their 
rural abodes. 

7 Nothing can be more imposing than the magnifi- 
cence of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend 
like sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps 
of gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage. 
The solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, 
with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; 
the hare, bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant, 
suddenly bursting upon the wing. The brook, taught 
to wind in natural meanderings, or expand into a glassy 
lake — the sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering 
trees, with the yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and 
the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters: 
while some rustic temple, or sylvan statute, grown 
green and dank with age, gives an air of classic 
sanctity to the seclusion. 

8 These are but a few of the features of park 
scenery; but w^hat most delights me, is the creative 
talent with which the English decorate the unostenta- 
tious abodes of middle hfe. The rudest habitation, 



R URAL LIFE IN NE W ENGLAND. I 3 3 

the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in 
the hands of an Enghshman of taste, becomes a httle 
paradise. With a nicely discriminating eye, he seizes 
at once upon its capabilities, and pictures in his mind 
the future landscape. The sterile spot grows into 
loveliness under his hand; and yet the operations of 
art which produce the effect are scarcely to be per- 
ceived. The cherishing and training of some trees; 
the cautious pruning of others; the nice distribution 
of flowers and plants of tender and graceful foliage; 
the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the 
partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silver 
gleam of water — all these are managed with a deli- 
cate tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, Hke the 
magic touchings with which a painter finishes up a 
favorite picture. 

9 The residence of people of fortune and refine- 
ment in the country, has diffused a degree of taste 
and elegance in rural economy, that descends to the 
lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched 
cottage and narrow shp of ground, attends to their 
embelUshment. The trim hedge, the grassplot 
before the door, the httle flower bed bordered with 
snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, 
and hanging its blossoms about the lattice; the pot of 
flowers in the window; the holly, providently planted 
about the house, to cheat winter of its dreariness, and 
to throw in a semblance of green summer to cheer 
the fireside; —all these bespeak the influence of taste, 



1 34 THE SKETCH B O OK. 

flowing down from high sources, and pervading the 
lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as 
poets sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the 
cottage of an English peasant. 

10 The fondness for rural life among the higher 
classes of the English has had a great and salutary 
effect upon the national character. I do not know a 
finer race of men than the English gentlemen. In- 
stead of the softness and effeminacy which charac- 
terize the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit 
a union of elegance and strength, a robustness of frame 
and freshness of complexion, which I am inclined to 
attribute to their living so much in the open air, and 
pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the 
country. The hardy exercises produce also a healthful 
tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness and simplic- 
ity of manners, which even the follies and dissipations 
of the town can not easily pervert, and can never 
entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different 
orders of society seem to approach more freely, to 
be more disposed to blend and operate favorably upon 
each other. The distinctions between them do not 
appear to be so marked and impassable as in the 
cities. The manner in which property has been dis- 
tributed into small estates and farms, has established 
a regular gradation from the noblemen through the 
classes of gentry, small landed proprietors, and sub- 
stantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and 
while it has thus banded the extremes of society 
together, has infused into each intermediate rank a 



R URAL LIFE IN NE W ENGLAND. I 3 5 

spirit of independence. This, it must be confessed, 
is not so universally the case at present as it was for- 
merly; the larger estates having, in late years of dis- 
tress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the 
country, almost annihilated the sturdy race of small 
farmers. These, however, I believe, are but casual 
breaks in the general system I have mentioned. 

11 In rural occupation, there is nothing mean and 
debasing. It leads a man forth among scenes of nat- 
ural grandeur and beauty; it leaves him to the work- 
ings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest 
and most elevating of external influences. Such a 
man may be simple and rough, but he can not be vul- 
gar. The man of refinement, therefore, finds noth- 
ing revolting in an intercourse with the lower orders 
in rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with 
the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance 
and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of 
rank, and to enter into the honest, heartfelt enjoy- 
ments of common life. Indeed, the very amusements 
of the country bring men more and more together; 
and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings 
into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why 
the nobiUty and gentry are more popular among the 
inferior orders in England than they are in any other 
country; and why the latter have endured so many 
excessive pressures and extremities, without repining 
more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune 
and privilege. 

12 To this mingUng of cultivated and rustic society 



I T,6 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs 
through British literature; the frequent use of illus- 
trations from rural life; those incomparable descrip- 
tions of Nature that abound in the British poets — 
that have continued down from * ' The Flower and the 
Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets 
all the freshness andjragrance of the dewy landscape. 
The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if 
they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become 
acquainted with her general charms; but the British 
poets have lived and reveled with her — they have 
wooed her in her most secret haunts — they have 
watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
tremble in the breeze, a leaf could not rustle to the 
ground, a diamond drop could not patter in the 
stream, a fragrance could not exhale from the hum- 
ble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the 
morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned 
and delicate observers, and wrought up into some 
beautiful morality. 

13 The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to 
rural occupations, has been wonderful on the face of 
the country. A great part of the island is rather 
level, and would be monotonous were it not for the 
charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as 
it were, with castles and palaces, and embroidered 
with parks and gardens. It does not abound in grand 
and sublime prospects, but rather in little home scenes 
of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique 



/e URAL LIFE IN NE I V ENGLAA L). I 3 7 

farmhouse and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and 
as the roads are continually winding, and the view is 
shut in by groves and hedges, the eye is delighted by 
a continual succession of small landscapes of capti- 
vating loveliness. 

14 The great charm, however, of English scenery, 
is the moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is 
associated in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, 
of sober, well-established principles, of hoary usage 
and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the 
growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. 
The old church, of remote architecture, with its low 
massive portal; its gothic tower, its windov/s, rich 
with tracery and painted glass, in scrupulous preser- 
vation — its stately monuments of warriors and wor- 
thies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords 
of the soil — its tombstones, recording successive gen- 
erations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow 
the same fields, and kneel at the same altar — the 
parsonage, a quaint irregular pile, partly antiquated, 
but repaired and altered in the tastes of various ages 
and occupants — the stile and footpath leading from 
the churchyard, across pleasant fields and along shady 
hedge-rows, according to an immemorable right of 
way — the neighboring village, with its venerable cot- 
tages, its public green, sheltered! by trees, under which 
the forefathers of the present race have sported — 
the antique family mansion, standing apart in some 
little rural domain, but looking down with a protect- 



138 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

ing air on the surrounding scene — all these common 
features of English landscape evince a calm and set- 
tled security, a hereditary transmission of homebred 
virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and 
touchingly for the moral character of the nation. 

15 It is a pleasing sight, of a Sunday morning, when 
the bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet 
fields, to behold the peasantry in their best finery, 
with ruddy faces, and modest cheerfulness, thronging 
tranquilly along the green lanes to church; but it is 
still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gather- 
ing about their cottage doors, and appearing to exult 
in the humble comforts and embellishments which their 
own hands have spread around them. 

16 It is this sweet home feehng, this settled repose 
of affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, 
the parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoy- 
ments; and I can not close these desultory remarks 
better than by quoting the words of a modern English 
poet, who has depicted it with remarkable felicity : — 



ThrougH each gradation, from the castled hall, 
The city dome, the villa crowned with shade, 
But chief from modest mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof 'd shed, 
This western isle has long been famed for scenes 
Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling place: 
Domestic bliss, that like a harmless dove 
(Honor and sweet endearment keeping guard). 
Can center in a little quiet nest 



RURAL LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND. I 39 

All that desire would fly for through the earth; 
That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoyed; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving Heaven. 
That, like a flower deep hid in leafy cleft, 
Smiles, though 'tis only looking at the sky.i 



1 From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the Reverend Rann 
Kennedy, A. M. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 



A gentleman ! 
What o' the woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists of velvet? which is 't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry, by? 

— Beggar'' s Btish. 

1 There are few places more favorable to the 
study of character than an EngUsh country church. 
I was once passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, 
who resided in the vicinity of one, the appearance 
of which particularly struck my fancy. It was one 
of those rich morsels of quaint antiquity which give 
such a peculiar charm to English landscape. It stood 
in the midst of a country filled with ancient famiUes, 
and contained, within its cold and silent aisles, the 
congregated dust of many noble generations. The 
interior walls were incrusted with monuments of every 
age and style. The light streamed through windows 
dimmed with armorial bearings, richly emblazoned in 
stained glass. In various parts of the church were 
tombs of knights, and high-born dames, of gorgeous 
workmanship, with their effigies in colored marble. 
On every side, the eye was struck with some instance 
of aspiring mortality; some haughty memorial which 
human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in this 
temple of the most humble of all religions. 
140 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 141 

2 The congregation was composed of the neighbor- 
ing people of rank, who sat in pews sumptuously 
lined and cushioned, furnished with rich-gilded prayer- 
books, and decorated with their arms upon the pew 
doors; of the villagers and peasantry, who filled the 
back seats, and a small gallery beside the organ; and 
of the poor of the parish, who were ranged on benches 
in the aisles. 

3 The service was performed by a snuffling, well- 
fed vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. 
He was a privileged guest at all the tables of the 
neighborhood, and had been the keenest fox-hunter 
in the country, until age and good living had disabled 
him from doing anything more than ride to see the 
hounds throw off, and make one at the hunting 
dinner. 

4 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it 
impossible to get into the train of thought suitable 
to the time and place; so having, hke many other 
feeble Christians, compromised with my conscience 
by laying the sin of my own deHnquency at another 
person's threshold, I occupied myself by making 
observations on my neighbors. 

5 I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious 
to notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I 
found, as usual, that there was the least pretension 
where there was the most acknowledged title to 
respect. I was particularly struck, for instance, with 
the family of a nobleman of high rank, consisting of 



1 42 THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

several sons and daughters. Nothing could be more 
simple and unassuming than their appearance. They 
generally came to church in the plainest equipage, and 
often on foot. The young ladies would stop and 
converse in the kindest manner with the peas- 
antry, caress the children, and listen to the stories 
of the humble cottagers. Their countenances were 
open and beautifully fair, with an expression of 
high refinement, but at the same time a frank 
cheerfulness, and engaging affability. Their brothers 
were tall, and elegantly formed. They were dressed 
fashionably, but simply; with strict neatness and 
propriety, but without any mannerism or foppishness. 
Their whole demeanor was easy and natural, with 
that lofty grace, and noble frankness, which bespeak 
free-born souls that have never been checked in their 
growth by feelings of inferiority. There is a health- 
ful hardiness about real dignity that never dreads 
contact and communion with others, however humble. 
It is only spurious pride that is morbid and sensitive, 
and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to see 
the manner in which they would converse with the 
peasantry about those rural concerns and field sports 
in which the gentlemen of the country so much 
delight. In these conversations, there was neither 
haughtiness on the one part, nor servility on the 
other; and you were only reminded of the difference 
of rank by the habitual respect of the peasant. 

6 In contrast to these, was the family of a wealthy 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 1 43 

citizen, who had amassed a vast fortune, and having 
purchased the estate and mansion of a ruined noble- 
man in the neighborhood, was endeavoring to assume 
all the style and dignity of a hereditary lord of the 
soil. The family always came to church en prince. 
They were rolled majestically along in a carriage em- 
blazoned with arms. The crest glittered in silver 
radiance from every part of the harness where a crest 
could possibly be placed. A fat coachman in a three- 
cornered hat, richly laced, and a flaxen wig, curling 
close round his rosy face, was seated on the box, with 
a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two footmen in 
gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and gold-headed 
canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and sank on 
its long springs with a peculiar stateliness of motion. 
The very horses champed their bits, arched their necks, 
and glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses; either because they had got a little of the 
family feeling, or were reined up" more tightly than 
ordinary. 

7 I could not but admire the style with which this 
splendid pageant was brought up to the gate of the 
churchyard. There was a vast effect produced at the 
turning of an angle of the wall; a great smacking of 
the whip; straining and scrambling of the horses; 
glistening of harness, and flashing of wheels through 
gravel. This was the moment of triumph and vain- 
glory to the coachman. The horses were urged and 
checked, until they were fretted into a foam. They 



144 THE SKETCH BOOK. 

threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing about 
pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers saun- 
tering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the 
right and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reach- 
ing the gate, the horses were pulled up with a sudden- 
ness that produced an immediate stop, and almost 
threw them on their haunches. 

8 There was an extraordinary hurry of the footmen 
to alight, open the door, pull down the steps, and 
prepare everything for the descent on earth of this 
august family. The old citizen first emerged his 
round red face from out the door, looking about him 
with the pompous air of a man accustomed to rule on 
'change, and shake the stockmarket with a nod. His 
consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, followed 
him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride 
in her composition. She was the picture of broad, 
honest, vulgar enjoyment. The world v/ent well with 
her; and she liked the world. She had fine clothes, 
a fine house, a fine carriage, fine children; everything 
was fine about her: it was nothing but driving about 
and visiting and feasting. Life was to her a perpetual 
revel; it was one long Lord Ma5^or's day. 

9 Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. 
The}^ certainly were handsome, but had a supercilious 
air that chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator 
to be critical. They were ultra-fashionable in dress, 
and, though no one could deny the richness of their 
decorations, yet their appropriateness might be ques- 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 145 

tioned amidst the simplicity of a country church. 
They descended loftily from the carriage, and moved 
up the line of peasantry with a step that seemed 
dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast an excursive 
glance around, that passed coldly over the burly faces 
of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of the 
nobleman's family, when their countenances immedi- 
ately brightened into smiles, and they made the most 
profound and elegant courtesies, which were returned 
in a manner that showed they were but slight 
acquaintances. 

10 I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring 
citizen, who came to church in a dashing curricle, 
with outriders. They were arrayed in the extremity 
of the mode, with all that pedantry of dress which 
marks the man of questionable pretensions to style. 
They kept entirely by themselves, eying everyone 
askance that came near them, as if measuring his 
claims to respectability; yet they were without con- 
versation, except the exchange of an occasional phrase. 
They even moved artificially, for their bodies, in com- 
pliance with the caprice of the day, had been disci- 
plined into the absence of all ease and freedom. Art 
had done everything to accomplish them as men of 
fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless 
grace. They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed 
for the common purposes of life, and had that air of 
supercilious assumption which is never seen in the true 
gentleman. 



1 46 THE SKETCH B O OK. 

11 I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures 
of these two families, because I consider them speci- 
mens of what is often to be met with in this country 
— the unpretending great, and the arrogant httle. I 
have no respect for titled rank, unless it be accom- 
panied by true nobility of soul; but I have remarked, 
in all countries where these artificial distinctions exist, 
that the very highest classes are always the most 
courteous and unassuming. Those who are well 
assured of their own standing are least apt to trespass 
on that of others: whereas, nothing is so offensive as 
the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate 
itself by humiUating its neighbor. 

12 As I have brought these famihes into contrast, 
I must notice their behavior in church. That of the 
nobleman's family was quiet, serious, and attentive. 
Not that they appeared to have any fervor of devo- 
tion, but rather a respect for sacred things, and sacred 
places, inseparable from good breeding. The others, 
on the contrary, were in a perpetual flutter and whis- 
per; they betrayed a continual consciousness of finery, 
and the sorry ambition of being the wonders of a rural 
congregation. 

13 The old gentleman was the only one really 
attentive to the service. He took the whole burden 
of family devotion upon himself; standing bolt upright, 
and uttering the responses with a loud voice that 
might be heard all over the church. It was evident 
that he was one of those thorough church-and-king 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH. 147 

men who connect the idea of devotion and loyahy; 
who consider the Deity, somehow or other, of the 
government party, and rehgion *'a very excellent sort 
of thing, that aught to be countenanced and kept up." 

14 When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed 
more by way of example to the lower orders, to show 
them that though so great and wealthy, he was not 
above being religious; as I have seen a turtle-fed 
alderman swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, 
smacking his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing 
it "■ excellent food for the poor." 

15 When the service was at an end, I was curious 
to witness the several exits of my groups. The young 
noblemen and their sisters, as the day was fine, pre- 
ferred stroUing home across the fields, chatting with 
the country people as they went. The others departed 
as they came, in grand parade. Again were the 
equipages wheeled up to the gate. There was again 
the smacking of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and 
the ghttering of harness. The horses started off 
almost at a bound; the villagers again hurried to right 
and left; the wheels threw up a cloud of dust, and 
the aspiring family was wrapt out of sight in a 
whirlwind. 



CHRISTMAS. 



"But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the hair of 
his good, gray, old head and beard left? Well, I will have that, see- 
ing I can not have more of him." — Hue and Cry after Christinas. 

" A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall. 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbors were friendly bidden. 

And all had welcome true, 
The poor from the gates were not chidden, 
When this old cap was new." 

— Old Song.^ 

1 There is nothing in England that exercises a more 
dehghtful spell over my imagination than the linger- 
ings of the holiday customs and rural games of former 
times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to 
draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only 
knew the world through books, and believed it to be 
all that poets had painted it; and they bring with 
them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, 
perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the 
world was more homebred, social, and joyous than 
at present. I regret to say that they are daily grow- 
ing more and more faint, being gradually worn away 

1 From "Guild Hall Giants," by Thomas Hood, a famous English humorist and popu- 
lar author (born in London, 1798; died, 1845). 

148 



CHRISTMAS. 149 

by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. 
They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic 
architecture which we see crumbling in various parts 
of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of 
ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations 
of latter days. Poetry, however, clings with cherish- 
ing fondness about the rural game and holiday revel, 
from which it has derived so many of its themes, — as 
the ivy winds its rich foliage about the Gothic arch 
and moldering tower, gratefully repaying their sup- 
port by clasping together their tottering remains, and, 
as it were, embalming them in verdure. 

2 Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christ- 
mas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt asso- 
ciations. There is one tone of solemn and sacred 
feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the 
spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment. 
The services of the church about this season are ex- 
tremely tender and inspiring. They dwell on the 
beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pas- 
toral scenes that accompanied its announcement. 
They gradually increase in fervor and pathos during 
the season of Advent, until they break forth in full 
jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good 
will to men.^ I do not know a grander effect of 
music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir 
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 



1 No war was declared, and no capital executions were permitted to take place 
during this season of good will, 



I 5 O THE SKE TCH B O OK. 

in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile 
w^ith triumphant harmony. 

3 It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from 
the days of yore, that this festival, which commemo- 
rates the announcement of the religion of peace and 
love, has been made the season for gathering together 
of family connections, and drawing closer again those 
bands of kindred hearts which the cares and pleasures 
and sorrows of the world are continually operating to 
cast loose; of calling back the children of the family, 
who have launched forth in life, and wandered widely 
asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal 
hearth, that rallying-place of the affections, there to 
grow young and loving again among the endearing 
mementoes of childhood. 

4 There is something in the very season of the 
year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. 
At other times we derive a great portion of our pleas- 
ures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings 
sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny 
landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." 
The song of the bird; the murmur of the stream; 
the breathing fragrance of spring; the soft voluptu- 
ousness of summer; the golden pomp of autumn; 
earth, w4th its mantle of refreshing green; and 
heaven, with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy 
magnificence, — all fill us with mute but exquisite de- 
light, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation. 
But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies de^ 



CHRISTMAS. I 5 I 

spoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of 
sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral 
sources. The dreariness and desolation of the land- 
scape, the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, 
while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our 
feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us 
more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social 
circle. Our thoughts are more concentrated, our 
friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more 
sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are 
brought more closely together by dependence on each 
other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart; and 
we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living 
kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our 
bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth 
the pure element of domestic felicity. 

5 The pitchy gloom without makes the heart 
dilate on entering the room filled with the glow and 
warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses 
an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, 
and lights up each countenance into a kindlier wel- 
come. Where does the honest face of hospitality ex- 
pand into a broader and more cordial smile, where is 
the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by 
the winter fireside t and as the hollow blast of wintry 
wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, 
whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the 
chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling 
of sober and sheltered security with which we look 



152 THE SKETCH BOOK, 

around upon the comfortable chamber and the scene 
of domestic hilarity ? 

6 The English, from the great prevalence of rural 
habits throughout every class of society, have always 
been fond of those festivals and holidays which agree- 
ably interrupt the stillness of country life, and they 
were in former days particularly observant of the 
religious and social rights of Christmas/ It is inspir- 
ing to read even the dry details which some antiqua- 
ries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque 
pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and 
good-fellowship, with which this festival was cele- 
brated. It seemed to throw open every door, and 
unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the 
peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of 
castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp 
and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards 
groaned under the weight of hospitahty. Even the 
poorest cottage welcomed the festive season with 
green decorations of bay and holly. The cheerful 
fire glanced its rays through the lattice, inviting 
the passenger to raise the latch, and join the gossip 
knot huddled round the hearth, beguiling the long 
evening with legendary jokes and oft-told Christmas 
tales. 

7 One of the least pleasing effects of modern refine- 
ment is the havoc it has made among the hearty old 



1 Christmas Day, in the primitive church, was always observed as the Sabbath day, 
and, like that, preceded by an eve or vigil : hence our Christmas Eve, 



CHRISTMAS. 153 

holiday customs. It has completely taken off the 
sharp touchings and spirited rehefs of these cmbelHsh- 
ments of life, and has worn down society into a more 
smooth and polished, but certainly a less character- 
istic surface. Many of the games and ceremonials of 
Christmas have entirely disappeared, and, like the 
sherris sack of old Falstaff,^ are become matters of 
speculation and dispute among commentators. They 
flourished in times full of spirit and lustihood, w^hen 
men enjoyed life roughly, but heartily and vigor- 
ously, — times wild picturesque, which have furnished 
poetry with its richest materials, aud the drama with 
its most attractive variety of characters and manners. 
The world has become more worldly. There is more 
of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. Pleasure has 
expanded into a broader but a shallower stream, and 
has forsaken many of those deep and quiet channels 
where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom of 
domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlight- 
ened and elegant tone; but it has lost many of its 
strong local peculiarities, its home-bred feelings, its 
honest fireside delights. The traditionary customs of 
golden-hearted antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and 
lordly wassailings, have passed away with the baronial 
castles and stately manor-houses in which they were 
celebrated. They comported with the shadowy hall, 
the great oaken gallery, and the tapestried parlor, 
but are unfitted for the light, showy saloons and gay 
drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 

1 Second Henry IV, act iv, sc. 3. 



1 5 4 THE SKETCH B O OK. 

8 Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and fes- 
tive honors, Christmas is still a period of delightful 
excitement in England. It is gratifying to see that 
home feeling completely aroused which holds so 
powerful a place in every English bosom. The 
preparations making on every side for the social 
board that is again to unite friends and kindred; the 
presents of good cheer passing and repassing, those 
tokens of regard, and quickeners of kind feelings; the 
evergreens distributed about houses and churches, 
emblems of peace and gladness, — all these have the 
most pleasing effect in producing fond associations, 
and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the sound 
of the waits, ^ rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks 
upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the 
effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened 
by them in that still and solemn hour • ' when deep 
sleep falleth upon man, " I have listened with a 
hushed delight, and, connecting them with the sacred 
and joyous occasion, have almost fancied them into 
another celestial choir ^ announcing peace and good 
wdll to mankind. How delightfully the imagination, 
when wrought upon by these moral influences, turns 
everything to melody and beauty! The very crowing 
of the cock, heard sometimes in the profound repose 
of the country, ' ' telling the night watches to his 
feathery dames," w^as thought by the common people 
to announce the approach of this sacred festival. 

1 Or wayte, originally a kind of night-watchman, who sounded the hours of his 
watch, and guarded the streets; later a musician who sang out of doors at Christmas 
time, going from house to house. 

2 Luke ii, 13, 14. 



SUGGESTIONS FOR A STUDY OF A PORTION 
OF "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." 



Next to ''Rip Van Winkle, "the most popular selection of 
''The Sketch Book" is '' The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." 
It opens with a description of the spot, " which is one of 
the quietest places in the world." He enumerates some of 
the superstitions of the people concerning their neighbor- 
hood, and by this means prepares our imagination for the 
story. The leading character of the story is Ichabod 
Crane, a schoolmaster from Connecticut, who pursued his 
calling in " this by-place of nature." Among other pecul- 
iarities, Ichabod was nervous in the dark. 

FROM "THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW." 

8 The cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. He 
was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and 
legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have 
served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. 
His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy 
eyes, and a long, snipe nose, so that it looked like a weathercock 
perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which way the wind blew. To 
see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his 
clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him 
for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow 
eloped from a cornfield. 

STUDIES. 

I. In what points does the ludicrousness of the descrip- 
tion consist? 2. What hyperbole in the description? 
3. What are the ludicrous comparisons? 4. What is 
caricature? 5. What would you call this description? 
6. What of Irving's power of ludicrous description of 
persons ? 

NOTES ON THE ABOVE MODEL. 

{a) The first sentence implies the one quality which characterizes 
the appearance of Ichabod Crane: namely, his awkwardness. "The 
cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person." 

155 



I 56 LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW. 

(/;) Each of the sentences which follow emphasizes this qualit)^ 
Examine each sentence and prove this statement. 

(f) The last sentence restates the general impression which the 
appearance of Ichabod makes. "To see him striding . . . cornfield." 

In this neighborhood lived the well-to-do old Baltus 
Van Tassel with his '^ blooming" daughter, Katrina, v\^ho 
was in Ichabod's v/eekly music class. Baltus Van Tassel's 
place is thus described : — 

21 His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, in one 
of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which the Dutch farmers are 
so fend ct nestling. A great elm-tree spread its broad branches over it; 
at the foot of which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest 
water, in a little well, formed of a barrel; and then stole sparkling 
away through the grass, to a neighboring brook, that babbled along 
among alders and dwarf willows. Hard by the farmhouse was a vast 
barn, that might have served for a church, every window and crevice of 
which seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm; the flail 
was busily resounding within it from morning to night; swallows and 
martins skimmed twittering about the eaves; and rows of pigeons, some 
with one eye turned up, as if watching the weather, some with their 
heads under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others, swelling, 
and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were enjoying the sunshine 
on the roof. Sleek, unwieldy porkers were grunting in the repose and 
abundance of their pens, from whence sallied forth now and then, 
groups of sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of 
snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying whole fleets of 
ducks; regiments of turkeys were gobbling through t'-e farm-yard, and 
guinea-fowls fretting about it like ill-tempered housewives, with their 
peevish, discontented cry. Before the barn door strutted the gallant cock, 
that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine gentleman; clapping his 
burnished wings and crowing in the pride and gladness of his heart — 
sometimes tearing up the earth with his feet, and then generously 
calling his ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 
morsel which he had discovered. 

STUDIES. 

I. What type in the word "nestling"? 2. What 
emotional words in the second sentence? 3. Which of 
them are experiential to you ? 4. Select and explain the 
types in that sentence. 5. Enumerate the points he has 
selected in order to bring the scene before your mind. 



LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLE OW. I 5 7 

6. Compare his method with that in his description of the 
Catskill Mountains. 7. What effects in his description 
of the barn? 8. Study his description of the swallows 
and martins. How many points did he select about 
them ? Are those points sufficient ? Why ? 9. Study his 
description of the pigeons. Can you imagine the scene ? 
10. Has he selected the strongest characteristics of the 
several kinds of birds? Notice that you do not need 
many characteristics if you select the right ones, ii. 
Notice his choice of adjective in ''sleek, unwieldy pork- 
ers." 12. Explain the types in (^) ''sallied forth," 
{b) "squadron," (^) "stately," i^d) "convoying," (<?) 
"fleets," (/) " regiments, " (^) "fretting," {Ji) "strut- 
ted," (z) "gallant," (» "burnished," {Jz) "generously." 
13. Note how he has selected distinctive characteris- 
tics, as shown in the use of i^a) " to snuff," {b^ " snowy," 
(^) "gobbling," (^) "peevish, discontented cry," (^) 
"clapping," (/) "crowing," (^) "ever-hungry." 



SUGGESTIONS FOR A STUDY OF A PORTION 
OF "RIP VAN WINKLE." 



FROM " RIP VAN WINKLE. 

1 Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the 
Catskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the Appala- 
chian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to 
a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every 
change of season, every change of weather, indeed every hour of the 
day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these 
mountains; and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, 
as perfect barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they are 
clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold outlines on the clear 
evening sky; but sometimes, when the rest of the landscape is cloudless, 
they will gather a hood of gray vapors about their summits, which, in 
the last rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a crown of 
glory. 

2 At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried 
the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle roofs gleam 



158 RIP VAN WINKLE. 

among the trees, just where the blue tints of the uplands melt away into 
the fresh green of the nearer landscape. 

STUDIES. 

I. Read the sentences aloud. What do you notice 
about them? 2. What types in i^a) ''swelling up," {^b') 
"noble height/' (<:) ''lording it over," (<^) "magical 
hues," (^) "clothed," (/) "print," i^g) "bold outlines," 
(/z) "gather a hood," {i) " crown of glory " ? 3. Out- 
line the few points by which he has brought the moun- 
tains before you. 4. Study the selection of these points. 
Are they enough to enable you to imagine them? 5. Do 
these points appeal to your feeling of beauty? How? 

6. Do they appeal to your reason as a set of facts? Why? 

7. If he had undertaken to give you the exact geographical 
location, the elevation, etc., would you have pictured the 
mountains so well? 8. Study the second paragraph and 
analyze all the elements of beauty of description it has 
in it. Explain all the types. 9. What do you say of 
Irving's power of description of natural scenery? 10. 
What moods in the two scenes presented ? 

Si ifc i^ iJc ^ ifc ^ ^ 5^^ 

" Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle, as years of 
matrimony rolled on: a tart temper never mellows with age, and a 
sharp tongue is the only edge tool that grows keener with constant use. 
For a long while he used to console himself, when driven from home, 
by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the sages, philosophers, and 
other idle personages of the village, which held its sessions on a bench 
before a small inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of his majesty 
George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade of a long, lazy 
summer's day, talking listlessly over village gossip, or telling endless 
sleepy stories about nothing. But it would have been worth any states- 
man's money to have heard the profound discussions which sometimes 
took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell into their hands, 
from some passing traveler. How solemnly they would listen to the 
contents, as drawled out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a 
dapper learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the most 
gigantic word in the dictionary; and how sagely they would deliberate 
upon public events some months after they had taken place. 



RIP VAN WINKLE. 1 59 



STUDIES. 

Rip Van Winkle was a good-natured, lazy fellow, who 
liked to loaf about the tavern and to hunt squirrels in the 
mountains. His wife did all the work, but was not good- 
natured, and Rip lived an uneasy life about home. i. 
What type in '' rolled on"? 2. What wit in the first 
sentence? 3. Explain the types in '^tarf and ''mel- 
lows," and ''sharp tongue." 4. What humor in the 
paragraph? 5. Explain the use of " lazy " and " sleepy." 
6. Select all the epithetic words used in his phrases. Are 
they well chosen? 7. Pick out all the effects in the 



paragraph. 



A STUDY OF A SELECTION FROM 
"WESTMINSTER ABBEY." 



FROM "WESTMINSTER ABBEY." 

20 Suddenly the notes of the deep labouring organ burst upon the ear, 
falling with doubled and redoubled intensity, and rolling, as it were, 
huge billows of sound. How well do their volume and grandeur accord 
with this mighty building! With what pomp do they swell through its 
vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony through these caves of 
death, and make the silent sepulcher vocal ! And now they rise in 
triumphant acclamation, heaving higher and higher their accordant 
notes, and piling sound on sound. And now they pause, and the soft 
voices of ihe choir break out into sweet gushes of melody; they soar 
aloft, and warble along the roof, and seem to play about these lofty 
vaults like the pure airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 
thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and rolling it forth upon 
the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! What solemn sweeping con- 
cords ! It grows more and more dense and powerful — it fills the vast 
pile, and seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the senses 
are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in full jubilee — it is 
rising from the earth to heaven — the very soul seems rapt away, and 
floated upwards on this swelling tide of harmony ! 



l6o WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 

STUDIES. 

I. What types in the first sentence? Explain thenio 

2. Select and explain all the types used in the selection. 

3. What emotional words and phrases are used? 4. 
Classify them. How many are poetic ? 5. In what 
does the beauty of the music consist, as he describes 
it ? 6. Observe the progress from beginning to end. 
What is such arrangement called? 7. What art in the 
soft voices of the choir coming between the heavy organ 
music ? 8. What is the mood of the selection ? 9. How 
has he produced it ? Name all the striking causes. 



23 The last beams of day were now faintly streaming through the 
painted windows in the high vaults above me: the lower parts of the 
abbey were already wrapped in the obscurity of twilight. The chapels 
and aisles grew darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
shadows; the marble figures of the monuments assumed strange shapes in 
the uncertain light; the evening breeze crept through the aisles like the 
cold breath of the grave; and even the distant footfall of a verger, 
traversing the Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its 
sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I passed out at 
the portal of the cloisters, the door, closing with a jarring noise behind 
me, filled the whole building with echoes. 



STUDIES. 

I. What is the mood of the paragraph? 2. What 
things make up this mood ? 3. Select and explain all 
the types used. 4. Select other emotional words and 



phrases. 



A SUMMARY. 



1. Make an outline of Irving's characteristics as a 
man and author. Quote to prove your points. 

2. Write an essay from that outline. 

3. Write a comparison and contrast of Irving and 
Holmes. 



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